


A Lamp Amid the Darkness

by Dryad



Series: The Shadows; Where Softly Steps the Light [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 19th Century America, A Lot of Violence Okay?, AU, Aftermath of Violence, Clearly I'm Insane, Everyone's British except Clara, F/F, Graphic descriptions of violence, I Can't Believe I'm Actually Going To Write This, M/M, Multi, NC17, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Please Don't Hate Me, Romance, Slow Burn, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:43:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1859, Sherlock Holmes is sent to America to deal with James Moriarty, who is trying to gather support in the form of guns and money for the Irish rebellion. While in Boston, Sherlock meets one John Watson, who has moved to America not only to escape the memory of his late wife, but to recover from the injuries he sustained in India.</p><p>In an atmosphere brimming with politics and the threat of war, can Sherlock and John become a force unstoppable only by the most crafty of men? Have they met their match in James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran? Most of all, can they protect their friends and family from the fallout of stirring the hornet's nest?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to America

**Author's Note:**

> ETAA: This series has been split in two, the main story being A Lamp Amidst the Darkness, the backstory being A Dark Lamp. You don't have to read A Dark Lamp to understand the main timeline, but Imo it does round out the characters. 
> 
>  
> 
> ETA: I've changed the tags to better reflect what happens in this novel. If you have any questions, please leave them in the comments.
> 
> I don't always put my ships in the tags. Feel free to [review](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/profile)
> 
> I cannot tell a lie: in over 20 years of writing fanfiction this is my first WIP. I have absolutely no idea when this will be completed, never mind having an actual posting schedule. I hope to update every two weeks or so - that's what I'm pencilling in my diary - but the vagaries of life, y'know? Oh yes, there is an actual plot, but I'm a slow writer and I've got other pots boiling, as it were. Your patience is greatly appreciated.
> 
> Please let me know of any inconsistencies - and I know there will be many - you see, especially if you're knowledgeable of...things. Feel free to pm me beforehand if you see the potential for Bad Things.
> 
> Please note there is a [PINBOARD](http://www.pinterest.com/hekateris1772/a-lamp-amid-the-darkness/) for this story! I will be adding to it over time, so check it out, yeah?
> 
> Okay - ready? I'm not sure I am...

~*~ BOSTON 1859 ~*~

 

Lestrade left the police station as soon as the runner gave him the news. The _Donald McKay_ was in after only a month at sea. He was impressed - he'd only gotten Lord Holmes' letter about his younger brother the week before. 

The gentleman's reputation was a mix of admiration and opprobrium. In all honesty, Lestrade wasn't sure he wanted the man on American shores. However, Lestrade also wouldn't be where he was without the aid of Sherlock Holmes. The least he could offer was a bed and a hot meal on his own dime. 

He made it to the wharves quite quickly, considering the depth of mud in the streets and the drifts of snow leftover from Sunday's storm. Springtime in New England.

He _loved_ it.

"Goodwife," he called to the fishwife struggling to haul a net down the wharf. He kicked the trailing end of the net free of the pile of boxes it had caught on. "Can you tell me where the _Donald McKay_ has docked?"

She didn't bother to answer, merely jerked her head back. 

"Thanks," he muttered, and continued down the wharf. Which ship was the _Donald McKay_ became clear as one dock in particular was busy with barrels and crates and large casks being unloaded from the deck and hold. A sprinkling of passengers were disembarking, fine ladies holding on to one another as they tried to adjust to the solidity of land beneath their feet. Meanwhile, their associated gentlemen attempted to look wiser by leaning against whatever non-moving item they could. Still, Lestrade could see it in the clammy pallor of their skin, the unease in their faces. He chuckled to himself. It had only been a few years for him, but he remembered his own landing day well. Couldn't forget that kind of stomach upset no matter what.

He was about to grab one of the ship's boys who had just thundered down the gangplank when the very man he wanted appeared. Holmes looked…better. Not wasted or thin. No, he looked healthy. And imperious. "Mr. Holmes!"

"Ah, Lestrade," 

"How was the journey?" Lestrade called, sticking his hands in his pockets. Once again he bitterly regretted leaving the office without his good leather gloves. This was no time of the year to be without them. Actually, no time of the year in New England was to be without gloves, not even the hottest of Augusts.

"The _Donald McKay_ was suitable for my purposes," Sherlock answered, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet as he stepped on to the dock. "How soon can I see Williams?"

Lestrade turned to walk away, swung back. "Williams? He's dead."

"When!"

"Last night," said Lestrade. "Come on, best discuss this indoors."

"What did he die of?"

"Look, let's get you settled and then head over to the station," Lestrade was only able to take two steps before a heavy (gloved) hand landed on his shoulder. "Look, we don't know, alright? Sully found him this morning, cold as ice. Literally, he was iced over."

The grip tightened and Lestrade briefly closed his eyes. God, he'd forgotten what Holmes was like. "The cell is secured, no one goes in or out but me, and now you. Now I'm desperate for a cup of coffee so I suggest we get a move on."

Sherlock's eyes widened, but he let go of Lestrade's shoulder. "I'll need lab equipment."

"Already arranged. In fact, you! Boy!" Lestrade fished one out one of his cards from his jacket and the stub of a pencil, wrote down an address. He handed it to the boy, a mop haired imp with a knowing gaze. "Have Mr. Holmes' luggage brought to Mrs. Wallace's on Newbury Street, then be at Pleasure St. Station at three. There's a dollar in it for you if his belongings get there unmolested."

"Thanks, mister!"

At Sherlock's raised eyebrow, Lestrade shrugged and said, "I'm not above bribery of the right sort."


	2. Hudson's Public House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring weather in Massachusetts was even more erratic than in England, and far more terrible for his leg and arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've a family emergency and will be leaving the country for the next week and a bit, so posting of part 3 will be delayed.

Hudson's Public House was the kind of establishment John Watson liked. It wasn't filthy enough to be a tavern yet not proper enough for polite society, either. Mrs. Douglas ran a clean establishment; no harlots, no spitting, no bloodshed. The walls were whitewashed, there was a bar running the length of the back wall, several long tables with benches and chairs, two card tables, hot food, and an indoor privy only to be used during inclement weather. In short, he felt free to carouse should the mood strike him.

And he did feel foul. Spring weather in Massachusetts was even more erratic than in England, and far more terrible for his leg and arm. The cold wind off the bay cut through him, making it almost impossible for him to stay warm without him sitting right next to Harry's fancy new Franklin stove. It was a black beast, but it could throw out heat the likes of which he hadn't felt since Cawnpore.

It was rage that had led him to walking in the slushy streets, rage that made him agree to take a drink with Stamford, rage at Harry and her lack of propriety. Oh, not that he cared one whit about Silas or her Boston Marriage with Clara. Getting drunk in public, however - with Eliza and Hartwell by her side, no less! - it was not her reputation that mattered but that of her children, her health. Was it not enough to see their mother succumb to the same disease to keep Harry from making the same mistake?

She was probably soaking herself while he did the same in Hudson's. He took another sip of his ale, contemplated ordering toast and cheese and plum jam for his tea.

" _Sir!_ I beg you cease your endless prattling about matters of which you know no thing - "

The voice in the corner was loud and drew John's attention, along with everyone else's, for a few seconds. Ah, the group of four playing cards. They were hard to miss as one of them wore the navy surtout and pale blue trousers of the Cavalry, a Lieutenant judging by the barely visible black braid on his sleeves. There was a mountain man in furs and leathers while the other two were dandies in wool and tweed. He turned back to his ale once the situation appeared to calm down. Damned fools, talking politics in a pub. He'd heard enough of it from Clara and her constant talk about Senator Lincoln. He wished he'd never taken her to the Temperance Hall to hear him speak. But no, she would have gone without escort or worse, convinced Harry to go along with her, leaving the children behind when they were ill with fever.

"Hallo, Dr. Watson."

"Hello, Lestrade," he answered, glancing at the gentleman shadowing the detective. He was very tall and very pale with dark curls framing his face. The cut of his black overcoat was exquisite, as was the fine leather of his gloves. John couldn't decide if the sight of him made him homesick or not. "Hello."

"This is Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, sitting down next to John. He sat tall, looked around the room before calling, "Betsy, two coffees!" Turning back to John, he said, "Where's Stamford?"

"Patient called for him. She's on her ninth," said John with a shrug. He couldn't quite keep the bitterness from his tone, because he and Mary hadn't even managed one. 

_Mary._

"Blast. Sit down, Sherlock, we're not leaving until I have my coffee."

"Are your preparations going well?" asked John, holding on to his glass as if it might ground him to the present. "Osawatomie Brown is in Lowell."

Lestrade shook his head. "I don't really have the manpower to keep an eye on him as much as I would like. And it's not him, thank you, Betsy, it's not him so much as the rabblerousers who follow. Anderson was punched in the face last Wednesday."

John raised an eyebrow. Anderson was an ass.

Lestrade nodded. "I know, Anderson's an ass. Sally was with him."

"Harry's done all she can, even Clara has spoken to her, but she refuses," said John. He watched Lestrade add two lumps of sugar to his coffee, taste, wince, add one more lump and a dollop of milk. 

"She's afraid, and rightly so from what I've read of the 1850 law," said Mr. Holmes, looking at his coffee with deep suspicion.

"Yeah, well."

Lestrade looked angry, and John couldn't blame him. He'd seen slavery and parts close enough to it in all the parts of the world he had been to, courtesy of Her Majesty. 

"Can we see Williams, now?" asked Holmes, tapping the tips of his gloved fingers together.

"Do I look done with this coffee?"

Before Holmes had a chance to answer there was the sharp clatter of wood against wood. John leaped to his feet, cane clenched in his fist. Of course the trouble was at the card table in the corner, two chairs overturned and the table itself at an angle to the wall. The Lieutenant was picking himself off the floor, the other three standing, glancing at one another with hard eyes. 

"Oi!" bellowed Mrs. Douglas from behind the bar. "Take it outside!"

"Gentleman!" shouted Lestrade, shoving his way through the crowd while he retrieved his badge. He held it up high. "There'll be no fighting - put that down, sir!"

John followed Lestrade in Holmes' wake and so missed the drawing of the Cavalryman's sword. He was, however, utterly aware of the rasp of it being drawn from its scabbard, of the crowd drawing back, of Lestrade's curse. 

Standing nearer to John, the mountain man abruptly whipped the tankard he was holding towards Lestrade, catching Lestrade right in the face. "Stay out of it, you fucking pig!"

John was already moving before Lestrade had a chance to hit the floor. Catching Lestrade was impossible, but John managed to keep his head from cracking on the floorboards. The broken nose was obvious, blood running down Lestrade's chin onto his shirt. Helping hands pulled the woozy detective away from the fighting. 

Just as John glanced up to see what was happening, Holmes darted forward to snatch a coin purse being tossed between the dandies. Unfortunately he either miss-timed the Lieutenant's swing, or the Lieutenant was faster with his sword than John would have give him credit for, because he caught Holmes on his side, the sword parting the fabric of his coat as a hot knife through butter.

At this point brave souls in the crowd lunged forward and took the Lieutenant from behind, grabbing his arm and breaking his hold upon his sword. John ignored the ensuing shouting in order to aid Holmes, who was staring at his belly with no little amazement.

"You're a doctor," said Holmes, wiping blood from his skin. He held up his hand to show John. "People don't walk around London with swords, not even the criminals."

"Shut up and let me treat you," said John, kneeling to prod Holmes' midsection. The man was lucky, just a shallow slice along his belly. "Annoying, but nothing mortal provided it's kept clean."

"Obviously."

John sat back on his heels and regarded Holmes. "That's not the kind of response I usually get."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. After a beat he asked, "And what do people usually say?"

"Please don't let me die," John unwillingly remembered Stephenson, his terrified begging, how weak his grasp became as the hours had passed.

"Persia or the Crimea?"

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, Persia or the Crimea?"

"Lucknow."

"Ah," said Holmes, his head falling back against the wall. "It's always something."

"Where are you staying?"

"Lestrade had my trunks taken to a Mrs. Wallace on Newbury Street."

Lestrade, right. John turned to see where he was - sitting on a chair with several handkerchiefs to his face. It was a miracle he was conscious, in John's considered opinion. The tankard must have glanced off of his face, despite how the broken nose looked. John had seen men die with less apparent blows.

"You ready?" asked Lestrade, all nasal tones and pain.

John nodded and stood up. "I need to attend to Mr. Holmes as well as yourself."

"Good thing we're all headed towards the nick, then. Holmes, can you walk?"

John didn't give Holmes the chance to rebuff Lestrade. Loudly, he said, "We're taking a cab."

And so they did. A cab to Pleasant St. Station, where John reset Lestrade's nose. He stitched the cut in Holmes' side, then left the station for home.


	3. First, Do No Harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, Scrivener ate this wip and I was unable to recover the section I had been working on. 
> 
> HAHAHAHA *sob*
> 
> I am working on finishing the Small Fandoms Bang I signed up for, but hope to write another chapter in this WIP rather sooner than later.
> 
> Oh, for those of you familiar with Boston or its history, yes, I have taken liberties. Trust me, there are Reasons.
> 
> Please note there is a[ PINBOARD](http://www.pinterest.com/hekateris1772/a-lamp-amid-the-darkness/) for this story! It shall be updated from time to time.

 

After a light breakfast of coffee and johnnycake with extra maple syrup - food of the gods, it was - John made his way back to Pleasure Street Station.  
  
Sergeant Cooper waved John on, saying "His nibs is lookin' bad. None of the girls are gonna want him in that state."  
  
John nodded back and continued towards Lestrade's office. He knocked on the door sharply and then swung it open fully, wincing as Lestrade looked up from his paperwork. "How's the headache?"  
  
"Jesus god," muttered Lestrade, leaning back in his chair. He gingerly touched his fingertips to his cheekbones, the sides of his nose, the area between his eyebrows. "Why the hell am I in this job? It's certainly not for the money."  
  
"You just like catching bad men," said John. He put his bag on the desk, careful not to knock over a stack of files. "You enjoyed your time out West, right? Turn this way," John took a step back as Lestrade slowly spun his chair around. "What's this?"  
  
"Nice, innit?" said Lestrade, patting the arms of the chair. He stared at the ceiling as John drew closer to peer at his face. "My Lucy got it for me from the Smithfield public auction. Look," he said, demonstrating. "It even rocks back and forth!"  
  
"Wonderful, now hold still."  
  
Lestrade sighed but did as he was bid. John palpated Lestrade's face gently. The bruising was a severe purple-black and Lestrade's face was puffy.  
  
"So, will I live?" asked Lestrade, jerking away.  
  
John chuckled and opened his bag. He withdrew a bottle of Willow Bark powder and a vial of Laudanum.  
  
"Ah, no, no," said Lestrade, looking at the bottles and holding up one hand. "I'm good with whisky."  
  
"Take the powder. Mix it with strong tea. It'll help with the pain and inflammation," John held out the willow bark, and when Lestrade continued to frown, took Lestrade's hand and slapped the bottle into it. "One teaspoon with breakfast and dinner until it's gone."  
  
"Sir, aye sir! I'll do mah verra best!"  
  
"If  Dr. Stewart were to hear you he'd break your nose again after it healed," said John, shaking his head at Lestrade's terrible attempt at a Glaswegian accent. He put the Laudanum back in his bag, closed and locked it. "Call on me if the pain gets any worse, or if you start feeling numbness."  
  
"I will do."  
  
Leaving the Station, John headed back to Beacon Hill through the melting slush. Spring was sweeping its way in again. The sun was bright against a cloudless blue sky, highlighting the mounds of effluvia left by horses and dogs, the odd bit of refuse, torn broadsheets. He steadily made his way through to Willow Street, greeting still new neighbors and enquiring after their wellbeing.  
  
Even though Harriet had told him of her incredible situation, John had been pleasantly surprised at her home when he had arrived in Boston those long months earlier. A chance offer from a no-longer well off patient had led to Silas buying and utterly refurbishing a three story townhouse near Boston's society district.  Which meant that John now had a chance to refill the family coffers. Thankfully his steady reputation as a good medical man kept him deep in patients who could actually pay for his services with money, rather than in trade.  
  
In addition to his own room, Harriet had very kindly allowed him the use of Silas' old room and the parlor just off of the main hall. It was very convenient, having already been set up as a doctor's office, with a waiting room next door. There was even the marvel of an indoor water closet, for which John was immensely grateful in the depths of winter.  
  
Though he was never going to tell her, he was also very indebted and grateful to Harry for allowing him to stay at her house at all. Returning to London after Mary's death had been horrible, especially as it had been impossible to escape the stench of the Thames. Each night had been a reminder of the conditions at Lucknow, save for the foulness of rotting blood, the ever present reek of suppurating wounds and bodies left to bloat in the sun. The smell of sewerage had been simply unbearable. England had been unbearable.  
  
The journey to America had revived him, somewhat, or maybe just the fresh sea air. Nonetheless, he had been only too happy to help Harry with the children and the finances. She hadn't gone into great detail about Silas' whereabouts apart from "He's gone to the gold fields", but John wasn't stupid, he'd seen the look on her face as she'd spoken. Silas had gone to California, all right, yet the departure had been sudden, too sudden for a doctor with a full roster of patients.  
  
Entering the house via the back door, John removed his outer wear and put on a pair of slippers before heading into the kitchen. The house smelled heavenly, a combination of molasses and apple, roasting pork and sweet potato. Jingle was nowhere in sight, allowing John to steal two dark biscuits cooling on the counter. He nearly swooned from the sweetness of the molasses, the hot bite of crystallized ginger, the cinnamon and nutmeg, the biscuit itself still warm to the touch.  
  
Jingle was a formidable cook, and if Clara's husband ever made an appearance, John fully intended to buy Jingle from him. For all of her Abolitionist talk, Clara was too afraid of Guillaume to take money from John on her own. A pity.  
  
John had almost reached his office when he felt something brush across the back of his neck. He jumped, turned to find  Jingle on the bottom riser of the stairs, feather duster extended towards him.  
  
"How many did you take?" she asked impertinently, rounding the newell post to stand before him.  
  
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," he answered with a small smile while she glared up at him. She was one of the few American women who made him feel tall.  
  
"The more you eat now, the less you'll get tonight."  
  
He thought back to the counter, and of the full plate of biscuits that had been on the kitchen table. There had been more than enough for one evening's repast. "I'll keep that in mind."  
  
She nodded, pushed an errant curl of hair back underneath her headscarf. "You do that. Shall I bring you a cup of tea?"  
  
"Yes, thank you. Leave it outside if you hear voices," said John, unlocking the door leading directly into his office. Inside, he checked the time on the mantelpiece, close enough. They would be a little early, he thought, but that was alright. Better early than late. And he had few patients today, Mrs. Mallory and Josiah Quincy at noon, the Johnson twins and the Pettyfers and the Van Duisens, plus anyone who just might show up for an emergency.    
  
After drawing the lace curtain closed and lighting several oil lamps, he settled down to work. He refilled the various vials and powders in his medical bag, cleaned his instruments, sharpened the knives until the edges dully gleamed in the light.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note!

I have not by any means forgotten this tale, but I'm torn between posting chapters piecemeal or simply posting the entire thing when it's done. If you have a preference, please let me know in the comments!


	5. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Dublin's fair city...

"He's a dangerous man."

Thomas Ahearne fingered the cut pom-pom fringe on the heavy green velvet curtain, watched the people walking swiftly on the street below. Their breath streamed away from their faces in the stiff breeze from the harbour.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, Jack, yes. The question is, what am I supposed to do about it?" Ahearne let the curtain drop, collected his whiskey on the side table. 

Jack Galbally paced to and front of the fire. Unusually for him, his hands were clasped behind his back, for once not gesturing madly as was his habit. "Banish him. Tell him to get out of Dublin. Send him to Van Dieman's Land with the rest, send him to Canada, just get him away from here!"

Ahearne took a sip of whiskey and sat down in the armchair next to the mantel. The argument was an old one, and he had to admit that Jack was right. As were the others. "And just how do you suggest I do that?"

Galbally flung himself into the other chair, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His gaze was earnest as he spoke. "You've got to do it, man. You're the only one he listens to - "

For reasons he didn't care to explain. The shame of it - 

"Tell him you want him to get support from the lads overseas. Send us the material for a proper fight, tell the bastards out of -"

"No!" Ahearne managed not to hurl his glass into the fireplace. "O'Brien and his damned uprising failed! I'll not have another that costs us such men. We'll bide our time, gather supplies and money, and _then_ make our move."

Galbally shook his head. "O'Brien was in 1848 and him and Mitchell and Davis are paying the price for their loyalty. It's been ten years, Thomas. We can't afford a loose canon like him, not in Dublin, not in Ireland. Now O'Mahoney and his Fenians send us everything they can, and we could use more," Galbally stopped, crossed his legs, sat against the backrest and folded his hands in his lap. 

By his determined stare, Ahearne knew there was more to come. 

"Tell his mother to send him away," said Galbally evenly. 

" _Jesus Christ!_ " Ahearne launched himself out of the chair and this time, he did fling his glass towards the fire. It shattered on the base of the marble mantel, bright bits of glass glittering in the Persian carpet. He leaned heavily against the top shelf and tried to collect himself by gripping the cool marble hard instead of Galbally's throat. When he felt he could speak again, he growled, "Don't ever mention his mother again."

"I'll do whatever I have to, to make you see sense!" snapped Galbally. After a moment he continued. "He'll make more trouble for us than he's worth. We've already got the English breathing down our necks from that bombing, there's reason to think he won't stop there."

"Are you threatening me?"

Galbally shrugged. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

Ahearne closed his eyes, let the heat from the fire wash over his face until the burning was unbearable. He pushed off of the mantel and returned to his seat, sitting down heavily. Deirdre had to be protected above all else. She would be absolutely devastated to discover that Aoibhe, Bronagh, and Dearbhla had several older brothers. Especially as they were the products of his relationship with Eithne, rather than foundlings given to him by Father Richard. Eithne Moriarty was a mistake, a mistake he simply couldn't get enough of, a mistake that had resulted in ten children over the course of some twenty years, of whom James was the eldest. Yes, the boy was dangerous, yes, there _was_ something wrong with him, something that scared Ahearne to his core. 

He was ashamed to admit to himself that what he felt at Galbally's demand was not guilt, but _relief._

"Well?"

Ahearne nodded. "I'll tell him. But mind this, Jack, on your head be it if he finds out what you've done."

"Done what?"

 _Christ!_ Heart pounding, Ahearne turned towards his eldest son. "James, we were just discussing your future."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, YOU GUYS.
> 
> I had the most amazing plot complication this week that entirely changes what my ideas were about this fic. I've got plenty of notes, and I still have heaps of research to do, but wow, I am _really_ looking forward to writing this. I do not have a timetable, no, and I've got to work on other things, yet I'm hoping to work on it a little bit at a time. 
> 
> I really apologize for the delay, but since finishing [Night Moves](http://archiveofourown.org/series/125607) I've got a much better understanding of how I write WIPs (hey, having an idea of how it ends is a Really Good Thing). So, if you'll bear with me a bit longer, I promise you're going to love it. 
> 
> LOVE. IT. 
> 
> Now. There is a major plot point that I cannot discuss in the tags. Or rather, I'm not sure I should put in the tags...because I worry that I'm going to spoil things. Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, though...I guess I'll change tags as things happen, and hope for the best. If you have ANY worries whatsoever, please leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as.
> 
> Ee, so excited!!!


	6. That Old Time Religion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John eyed them both and said, "I think I hear dogs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate: though this fic has a Non-Con/Rape tag, there will be no such scenes in the novel. This is the 1850s, however, and people will allude to the topic in the manner of the times.
> 
> Please note there is a **[PINBOARD](https://www.pinterest.com/hekateris1772/a-lamp-amid-the-darkness/)** for this story! Unfortunately you now need to long in to view any boards (which is totally ridiculous, imo). I'm casting the _entire novel_ from Pinterest, so take note of any names you might see. There will be people shown who have yet to appear. The actual names of the people in the portraits are in brackets, as is of course any of the originating information.
> 
> Further notes at the end.

America was a frightening place.

It was just familiar enough and utterly strange at the same time. It wasn't like India, where the people and culture and history was so obviously different one had no expectations of fitting in or being understood; one naturally realized that was an impossibility. But America - America was like being at home in London, except for the times when it was completely different. On the way to India, a fever had swept through the ship. John had done his best with his medicines, but ultimately had had to resort to upending buckets of seawater over the heads of his patients and, eventually, himself. Sometimes being in America was a lot like that, getting a bucket of ice cold over one's head. It made you gasp and shudder and open your eyes wider than you thought possible, yet it left you awake and filled with renewed vigor afterward.

So if John thought that his arrival in Boston was a shock, traveling to Virginia with Harriet upon invitation from Clara was something else entirely. He knew about the slave trade - everyone did. He hadn't paid much attention apart from shaking his head whenever the subject came up in conversation, which, outside of America, had been infrequent. Nothing to do with him - why should he concern himself? 

The reality of it was...John wasn't sure there was a word for it. Clara's family owned a plantation, had made their money in tobacco and a few other, smaller cash crops such as indigo. While neither Clara nor Harriet appeared embarrassed at the sight of black bodies in ragged clothing, John had to retreat to writing in his diary to express his disapproval of the whole thing. Clara assured John that the house and grounds of the plantation were nothing special. Well, obviously special for the growing of certain crops, such as indigo, yet smaller by comparison to the large landowners who had five or six hundred slaves to work the fields. Three hundred was more than enough in Clara's opinion. 

The journey to Shambleau was both more and less arduous than John had anticipated. The further south they went, the warmer and more humid it became, which reminded him unpleasantly of India, and though travel by train was swifter than if they had gone by coach, and cheaper than if by sea, it was still uncomfortable for his leg. Eventually, they reached Williamsburg, where Clara's father's hand, Desmond, awaited them with a coach. From there they rode on well-rutted roads that made John itch with frustration. 

"I'm sorry," said Clara for the umpteenth time, her eyes glossy with tears. "Shambleau is out of the way of the main roads. We mostly ship our goods via the river."

"We could have just taken a boat from Williamsburg," John whispered to Harriet, while Clara was busy talking to the young man they were dropping off along the way.

"She probably just wants us to see the grand entrance," Harriet hissed back, shifting Hartwell off of her knee onto a makeshift bed of empty burlap sacks. "Let her have the moment, John. She's not had it easy since Guillaume left."

Easy for her to say. They were both well padded with skirts and undergarments while he had to suffer the ruts and potholes in a wagon with threadbare cushions and poor excuses for springs. For all of Clara's finery - Guillaume was a wealthy man - the condition of the coach and of the driver's ragged shirt and trousers did not portend well. 

And so it proved. The land in this part of Virginia was flat and not exactly marshy, yet it had many hallmarks of being a marsh. Except there were trees, unlike the flat, winding Norfolk Broads with which John was familiar. It was of course hot, and increasingly buggy. John enjoyed the slight breeze made by Harriet using an ivory fan.

"Shambleau is an old plantation, one of the oldest on the James. It's not like the grand houses in Boston or Montreal," said Clara, looking at John with pleading eyes. "As you can tell from the state of the road, we mostly use boats - we have our own wharves, of course. We grow good sweet leaf tobacco, and Father's tried to grow sugar cane and cotton, but he says the land isn't suitable."

"Surely it must be rich, being right on the river," said Harriet a little desperately. "Right, John? Didn't you see the same thing in India?"

"Well," he started. "Not precisely. I'm sure that when the rivers flood the land gets much more nourishment than otherwise."

"Yes, that's right! And of course the field hands do all they can to contribute, as well."

'Field hands'. Nice euphemism. 

It was rude of him to do so, but John was forced to hold on to Harriet's knee during one particularly earth shattering thump as one of the rear wheels rolled right into a pothole. He managed not to swear, but it was a close thing. He was fairly sure he resembled a white wall at this point anyway.

The house was white, long and narrow, with a porch supported by a thin colonnade. Multiple dormer windows came out of the roof in what John recognized was the local architectural style. Certainly he had never seen the like in New England. As they came up the wide drive, through the trees he glimpsed a few single story barns, also painted white. The tobacco barns he had seen on the way down from Boston had been much, much larger, but again, maybe it was a regional thing. Or perhaps they were drying something else. He didn't pay much more attention as to the barns as the wagon entered the curve the drive, the main house now taking up the view entirely. Up close, it was bigger than he had originally realized. The wagon stopped next to the broad front steps.

"Here we are!" Clara said brightly, wringing her hands together so hard her knuckles were white. Her grin, John noted, was a little too...too much. 

"Mama and Father should be here, though Father might be in his office. He doesn't like to be disturbed when he's in his office."

Once he realized the driver wasn't was going to stay in his seat, John got out of the wagon to help Harriet and Clara down safely. Clara's palms were clammy. Understandable, her nerves had become increasing frayed the further along from Boston they had come. 

John discretely wiped his hand on his trousers, then took Harriet by the waist and lifted her to the ground, just as he had done when they were little and pretending to be grand lords and ladies of the Royal Court. He lifted out Eliza, and Hartwell too, just beginning to rouse from his nap and crying out for his mother. "Harriet," he muttered under his breath. 

She was there in an instant. "Hartwell, shhh, we've been traveling, remember?"

"Clara!"

The joyous cry was followed by the rapid thud of shoes on wood. When John turned around, he found a horde of children surrounding Clara, the littlest ones tugging on her dress, bouncing on their toes in excitement. A very young child, perhaps three or so, stood on the outskirts of the crowd, staring at Clara and chewing on her fingers. 

"Clara! Clara's here!" and "Mama, Clara's here!" rang through the air. John was grateful this cacophany wasn't happening inside; it would have been unbearable. 

"William, is that you?" cried Clara, holding the shoulders of a boy who stood nearly shoulder to shoulder to her. Being short himself, John had not particularly noticed how positively tiny she was, but now that she was stood with her brother, the difference was striking.

An older woman appeared at the door. She looked like Clara, if Clara never smiled and wore thin, metal-framed glasses. Her iron-gray hair was pulled into a severe bun, her dress a serviceable brown plaid. The children noticed and settled down, looking back and forth between her and their older sister.

"Clara," the woman said, coming onto the porch and holding out one hand to shake. "Welcome home."

"Thank you, Mama," Clara said, before kissing the woman's cheek. She was still smiling, but it looked fixed to John. Clara turned towards him and Harriet. "Mama, this is Harriet Watson and her brother, Dr. John Watson. The little ones are Eliza and Hartwell. This is my Mama, Mrs. Sarah Littleton. Mama, Harriet and John have never been in the South before and I thought I would give them a treat and bring them to Shambleau. Is the Annex available?"

Mrs. Littleton clasped her hands in front of her waist and eyed them both top to bottom. It was not the first indication that not all was going to go well on this trip, but it was the first time John took his intuition about it seriously. Sarah looked nothing so much as a school 'marm', as they called teachers over here. He was fairly sure he'd gotten worse appraisals by Major Sholto. He was not one to shirk his duty, however much he might want to. John took one step up, doffed his cap. "Ma'am. I hope we haven't intruded upon your privacy."

"Doctor, was it?" she asked, staring at him until he felt even more uncomfortable. 

"Yes, ma'am," he waved his hat over the shorter members of the horde. "I would be delighted to check over any of them if you would like me to."

She nodded, glanced at Harriet, turned to her daughter and said, "Don't be late for dinner." 

The Annex was what in New England was called an Ell. It was an attachment to the main house, usually created sometime after the main house was built. Unlike the homes he had been in up North, this ell was practically an entire house in itself. There was no modern kitchen, but an old fashioned long room with an open fireplace that had ovens and an iron spider over the coals sufficed for cooking, if one so wished. There was a welcoming parlour with a couple of chairs and a truly uncomfortable sofa covered in slippery cowhide, fur-side up, a writing desk and next to it, a single Bible in the bookcase. Upstairs, four bedrooms led off of a central corridor. The decoration was...well, John didn't know what he had expected, but it was awfully plain. Patchwork quilts covered the beds, and the enameled jug and basins on each bedroom's dresser top were chipped. A Bible was displayed on each dresser as well, but at least there were curtains on the windows so nobody could peek in and see where a person might've shoved a Bible out of sight.

Back in the parlour, after Harriet had settled the children down for an afternoon nap - John could hardly believe they were that tired - Clara was apologetic. "We never did get many guests. I hope you don't mind?"

Harriet approached Clara with her hands held out, shaking her head. "Don't be a silly goose, of course we don't mind." 

"I've slept in far worse places, trust me," said John, shoving his hands in his pockets. He was glad he had thought to bring a book. Not that he had anything against the Bible, it was simply that he and Harriet had already had their fill of it as children. 

Clara nodded, still looking anxious about their surroundings. John pitied her. For all of her talk of missing home, it was clear that distance had made the memories far fonder than the reality would suggest they deserved. 

"Oh, I don't know where my manners are," said Clara, her voice wavery and high. "I'll get some water for - "

Even as John was glad to hear that he would be able to wash off the dust of the road, the front bell jingled and a skinny black girl carrying a bucket passed the door. There was a short silence as they all absorbed what they had just seen, and remembered they were no longer in New England. John had seen slaves in Boston, of course, and New York City. Escapees, re-captured runaways chained together, servants of good Southern folk doing their shopping or taking the waters at the various spas, free blacks going about their business, their pride setting them apart from slaves. 

John didn't know what to say. There was nothing he could do to ease their discomfort, or his own. As one, they moved toward the hallway and then outside onto the porch. John took a deep breath, smelling the heavy sweetness of the good green Earth in the air. It was going to rain soon, judging by the soft air.

The girl stepped onto the porch, realized they were still standing there looking at her, and froze.

Clara peered at her, ducked down a little to see her face more clearly, smiled slightly. "Delilah? Are you Delilah?"

"Yes'm," The girl said, keeping her gaze downcast. "Yes, ma'am."

"Do you remember me? Miss Clara? You must have been, oh, three or four when I got married," Clara turned towards John. "We had the grandest party. Mama and cousins Joan and Mary made my dress, and all the family was allowed to leave the fields and attend. It was a grand sight, do you remember, Delilah? Oh, tell me you remember!"

Delilah nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Out of Clara's sight, John glanced at Harriet, who sent him an equally agonized look back. There was no doubt about it, this was the worst idea in the history of worst ideas. They should never have come here.

"Well," said Clara, obviously crestfallen. "I'll let you get back to your work. And tell your mammy I want her."

"Yes'm."

Delilah walked away so fast she was almost running, and John could only admit to feeling the same way. "Let's wash up," he suggested. "Then perhaps tea?"

"Oh yes, of course," said Harriet with a forced grin. "We'll wash up, and then you can introduce us to the rest of your family."

In the privacy of his room, John sat on the bed heavily and sighed. There was no set itinerary to this visit. If they wanted, they could leave for home tomorrow, or continue on to Atlanta. Truth be told, he was in no mood to go further south. The land was beautiful, and the people he had met were kind and generous, as were so many Americans.

And yet.

He was beginning to understand the Abolitionist position more and more. He was well-travelled, courtesy of Her Majesty, and had witnessed many things, all manner of depravity and sin. Despite his experience in these things, there was something deeply unpleasant at seeing other human beings in chains. It was one thing to see a criminal being taken to the gallows in iron restraints, quite another to see ordinary people - to see _children_ \- in long coffles, being marched to new plantations. John found he had stronger opinions on the matter than he had would have ever thought. Of course he had seen slaves in Boston, yet it was different up there. He wasn't sure how it was different, but it was. He must have sat there for longer than he realized, for the knock on the door startled him.

"John? Are you ready?" asked Harriet, her voice muffled.

"Give me a minute," he called back, heaving himself off of the bed, which was far bouncier than the lumps under the quilt had initially suggested. There was a basket of cloths next to the basin and the newly-refilled jug. John quickly poured water into the basin, dipped in a cloth and wiped off the worst of the sweat and dirt on his face and neck, scrubbed his hands and wrists. Lifting an arm, he took a sniff - no, he was going to have to change before he was presentable to Clara's family. 

Ten minutes later he was standing on the porch of the main house, about to follow his sister inside. Clara showed them the formal parlour, the little parlour where the children normally ate and studied their Bible, the dining room with its long table.

Clara led them into the formal parlour, where her mother and the children were waiting. The lot of them were seated on what looked like another deeply uncomfortable sofa, which faced its twin, where Clara, Harriet, and then John all sat as well. The room was pleasant enough, with painted yellow walls and framed needlework here and there. A shelf of pretty blue and white china cups and saucers was displayed above a writing desk, along with the a reading stand hosting a book that didn't appear to be a Bible, but John couldn't quite get a good enough look to determine which book it was. There was an upright piano with a white vase of wildflowers on its top, a tidy fireplace with a pile of wood ready to be fired, and a low table between the sofas for what John hoped would eventually have a steaming pot of tea and maybe some biscuits because he was hungry.

There was a new face amongst the others previously seen, a tall boy with a smattering of acne across his gaunt cheeks. 

Clara cleared her throat. "John, Harriet, I'd like you to meet Joseph. At seventeen he's the oldest of the boys still here in the house. He has a twin sister, Josephine, but she lives in Charleston now - "

"Married when she was fourteen, she did," said one of the girls, fiddling with the end of her long brown braid. 

"Two weddings in the same year, aye," said Mrs. Littleton. 

John managed to keep what he hoped was a pleasant expression on his face. If Clara had married when she was eighteen, and she was twenty-four now, that meant her sister had married when Clara was...eleven?

"Yes," Clara leaned forward conspiratorially. "I wish I'd been here for hers. It must have been an amazing sight to see."

"Old man Kidson came over from Beekman's," said Joseph sullenly. "His mare got loose and got bred."

There was a brief void in conversation, then Clara moved on. "Next to him is Susannah, she's fourteen, then William next to her, he's ten, and Zedidiah, he's eight."

Clara faltered and stopped before the listing of names was complete. Her mother stepped in to the gap with the slightest, most judgmental hesitation John had seen since his Army days, on the special occasions where he had to mix with the wives of the officers and the local hoi polloi.

"The two girls are Anne and Betsy, and the little one is Jacob."

Clara nodded eagerly. "I told Lydie to bring Hartwell and Eliza over after their supper, if we weren't back by then. And tomorrow, they'll be with all of you while I show Dr. Watson and Harriet around town."

After an hour of stilted, halting, biscuit-less conversation, John was relieved when Clara suggested Joseph show them all the new things on the farm. The strangest part was that none of the younger children became antsy. Even Jacob, who was only three, sat still and quiet, only occasionally swinging his legs to and fro. As much as John wished their quietness was because of having strangers in the house, he also knew that it could not be laid at his feet. They were wealthy children, clearly curious, and just as curiously disciplined. He wondered who had the heavy hand in the family, Clara's mother, or her father. 

"Children, go upstairs and tend to your studies," said Mrs. Littleton, rising to her feet. 

Everyone followed her lead, John surreptitiously hiding a yawn behind his hand. Or not, judging by Susannah's smirk. 

Though John wasn't particularly interested in farming, being able to stretch his legs and ease the ache in his thigh was a comfort. As it turned out, the white buildings he had seen through the trees were not tobacco barns after all, but slave housing. They were neatly presented, and what few slaves were outside took one look at the them and headed into their homes without a backward glance. Even so, John could feel their gaze on his back as they continued down the road. The usual panoply of farm animals were there, cows, pigs, et cetera, and some sort of new machinery to clean cotton, although they did not grow cotton themselves. They bought whole bales of cotton and cleaned them before selling them on. There were fields of vegetables and more of tobacco, and a dock on the river to transport it to auction houses and then overseas.

Joseph led them down the road to the left of the front drive. The single storey white buildings John had seen on arrival turned out to be the homes of slaves, who stood and stared as they passed. John was rather reminded of being in India, amongst the Siddi, the leftover black slaves of the Mughals and the Portuguese. Sloe-eyed toddlers watched them walk by, their mothers keeping sharp eyes on them while they tended to pots on outdoor fires, or sat repairing already-repaired clothing while sitting on the steps leading up to their homes. Soon enough, they came to the barns and the stables. 

"Does Father still race?" asked Clara, holding out a handful of grass to a heavily-pregnant mare in a box stall.

"Not since you left," answered Joseph, shooting her a look of such disrespect John had to hold himself back from giving the young man a stern talking to. 

Clara got the message anyway, for she stopped, turned, and faced her brother. "Are you blaming me for him discontinuing his sport? Because that's flat-out wrong, Joseph."

"You don't know what it's like," hissed Joseph, looking around to see if anyone was listening besides the three of them. "It _is_ all your fault! If you'd waited to marry, then Jo wouldn't be gone! She wouldn't have - wouldn't have - she wouldn't have married at all!" He angrily wiped at his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

What nest of vipers was this? John moved a little closer to Clara, ready to block her if Joseph raised his hand.

"That's not true!" Ignoring John completely, Clara stepped closer to Joseph. "I didn't know what was happening with Josephine, I swear! I would never have left her, or you, alone, had I known."

Staring down at her, Joseph slowly nodded. 

"I promise I'll do my best," said Clara, rubbing Joseph's shoulder. "I haven't gone back on that. It's just…it takes time, and Guillaume is gone so often - "

Joseph snorted. "Your master hasn't written us a word since you left. I doubt he has any intentions for me."

Clara shook her head, frowning. "No, no, I've seen the letters, I've sent the mail myself. I _know_ he's written to Father."

There was a terrible silence, then Joseph chuckled bitterly. "Of course. Of course he's written to Father. Y'know he wants me to do more here? Take over…" he shook his head, scuffed his toe in the dirt. "I ain't never getting away from here, Clara. I think you're the only who doesn't know it."

It was a terrible truth to hear acknowledged, and John wandered back to the front of the barn to let them argue without an audience. Yes, it was pretty, very pretty, and the land obviously yielded well. He wasn't sure it was worth the labour.

John was thoroughly bored by the time they were done, and ready for his supper. Thankfully they were able to return to the Annex for an hour's rest before rejoining the family in the main house. This time the children, apart from Joseph and Susannah, were absent from the table. Eliza and Hartwell, both up and active and desperate to get out of the house, had been brought to eat with the younger children, leaving the adults to eat in peace. Dinner itself was a bounty, more food than John would expect outside of the Christmas table. The table was groaning with sliced ham, a whole chicken, bowls of peas and fried mushrooms and mashed potato, pickled onions and creamed corn, good white bread and sweet butter, plus green and yellow striped tomatoes that made John's tongue tingle. He was grateful for Harriet and Clara's prattle with Joseph and Susannah, both of whom were eager to discuss life in the North.

Of course, it didn't last long once they heard of John's adventures in India.

Mindful of Mrs. Littleton's disapproving glare, John kept to the funny stories, like when he and Murray discovered just how hot a curry could get and what the results were. Perhaps not the wisest of stories to tell at the dinner table, but better than the ones filled with gore and death. 

Two days after arriving at Shambleau and John continued to try and relieve his boredom with long walks in and around the farm. He took his diary and borrowed books from the small library he had found in the main house. The books were mostly on farming and animal husbandry, but there was also a shelf of fiction. John was surprised to see _Pride and Prejudice_ and other works by Currer Bell, Charles Dickens, and most surprisingly of all, Harriet Beecher Stowe's _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ , which had been all the rage some years back. It had been hidden behind Dickens's Bleak House, which was understandable, really. Who had gathered them? Who would have dared bring such a book, nay, _books_ , into a house such as this? Harriet had been at him not to brood so much, so he tucked the book into his bag along with his lunch and canteen.

The day was sweltering. Yes, there was a gusty breeze - a change of weather was coming - but it was heavy with moisture and only served to make him sweatier rather than drying him off. The clouds scudding across the sky were a welcome break from the sun overhead, yet John still felt the need to settle himself under the canopy of a tree overhanging a narrow river. The burbling water made him feel somewhat cooler, though he knew it was all in his mind. It was at times like this that he missed the fountains in the grand courts of India. He shook his head in disbelief that he could possibly miss India. How could he miss the place where Mary had died? It didn't make any sense.

John settled on the ground with his back against the tree. Crossing his ankles, he relaxed for what felt like the first time in days. Virginia was a fine land, he decided. Pretty warm in the height of summer, but no worse than Boston, really. Far warmer winters, he suspected.

Not his kind of country, however. Though he preferred England above all, there were enough comforts of home in Boston that he could live the rest of his life there, too. If he had to. However, he could admit to himself that he was feeling better in himself these days. Thoughts of Mary were no longer ever-present in his mind, though he could still get teary when he drank. Lestrade had said as much, once. An offhand comment about moving on and finding another wife so he wouldn't concentrate on Mary all the time. Have some children, find the joy in them and let Mary drift to the past. Just look at him and his Lucy. Lestrade had found her less than a year after his Martha died, and look how happy they were. Once a babe was born, why, he would be a new man.

John was glad for Lestrade; he was, truly. He simply didn't think he could marry again, that was all. No, he was sure he wasn't going to marry again. Her death had been a wasting agony, and his guilt at having to leave her body there without him - John sighed heavily. Enough of that. He took a sip of switchel and ate a few bites of cheese, followed by a bit of apple and then more switchel. Ah, blunting his hunger helped. If he saved the rest and pleaded a headache later on, he'd be able to skip another dinner at the table. He yawned. Blinking, he shifted to get more comfortable, then brought out Mrs. Gaskell's _North and South_ , which Harriet had raved about in her letters. It had been impossible to find a copy, never mind the time, in India, and back in London he hadn't had the interest for any kind of fiction. Now the familiarity of home called to him, and he eagerly began to read. 

 

~*~

 

"I said no!"

The shouting reached John as he approached the Annex. The voice was masculine, angry. John broke into a run and pounded up the steps to the front door. "Harriet?"

"John!" She called, sounding desperate. "We're in the parlour!"

The scene in the parlour was chaotic. Clara was cowering on the floor, arm raised to fend off a blow, while the deliverer of said blow stared down at her with an upraised fist. "Father, please!"

Harriet stood to one side, hands covering her mouth.

"Get away from her," commanded John, dropping his bag onto the floor.

The man, who was a good deal taller than John, and quite substantially built, looked him up and down and found John wanting. "This is none of your business, sir, and I'll thank you to step out of it."

"Yeah, no," said John, heading towards Clara around the sofa, keeping out of the man's reach. "She's my friend and I'll not have her hurt."

The man slowly lowered his arm and straightened up. "You're John Watson."

"Aye," John helped Clara to her feet, daring to take his eyes off of the stranger to make sure she was unharmed. 

"I'm fine," she said, her voice watery, for once not protesting when John moved her in back of himself. "John, this is my father, Joshua Littleton."

The pit of John's stomach soured immediately, but it was too late to apologize. Now that he was no longer as ready for a fight as he had been, he could see that Littleton was not dressed like the lout John had assumed him to be, but instead wore fine clothing. He nodded once. "Sir."

"My daughter speaks highly of you," said Littleton. "I did not think you were coming here with her, however."

"A last minute change of plans on my part," answered John. "Is there anything I can help you with? Or are you done here?"

Littleton's face fell, his lip twitching. "I'll thank you not to tell me how to run my house, Dr. Watson. You may do that sort of thing up North, but in the South we have our own way of dealing with recalcitrant children!"

"Father!" cried Clara, clutching at the back of John's jacket where her father couldn't see. "It was just a suggestion! Susannah's so unhappy here, I just thought it would be a relief for you and Mama to know she was with me instead of running wild to Jo's, or worse, to Evangeline! Father, please, please think about it!"

"The answer is no, Clara, and that's the end of it!" 

Littleton stalked out of the room, Harriet shrinking back from him as he passed her. When the porch door slammed shut, she darted to Clara, who had sunk onto the sofa, sobbing. "Oh my dear, it's all fine now, he's gone," said Harriet, sitting down and drawing Clara onto her shoulder. She looked up at John and shook her head, tears in her eyes. "Oh, he frightened her so, John! She asked a simple question and you saw what he did! He's a brute, my darling, a brute."

John released a long breath and shook his head in turn. It was too late in the day to leave, they would have to spend the night

"Clara, are you all right?" he asked, looking down at the two of them.

She snuffled into Harriet's shoulder and nodded. Harriet shook her head and somehow managed to pull Clara closer. 

"I'm going to change and then we'll talk about what's happened," said John, edging towards the door. Yes, he needed to change before anyone decided to ask why the bottom half of his trousers were damp.

The jug had been refilled in his room, so John took the opportunity to strip and bathe. It wasn't what he had become used to in Boston, but it was fine, all fine. In the morning he would find out the train schedule, then bring Harriet and Clara back home. Under no circumstances was he ever going to let Harriet return. A man who raised his hand to his own child was not one to be trusted around his sister, or any woman, in his opinion. He'd treated enough beaten women and children to know it never ended, not without a death on one side or another. 

He was buttoning his shirt when someone knocked on the door. "Come."

Harriet slipped in, left the door open ever so slightly. She crossed her arms, shaking her head. "A lot more has come clear to me in the past hour than the previous three years."

John tucked his shirt into his trousers. "Yeah? How so?"

"You never met Guillaume, did you?"

For a second John had no idea who she was talking about, then he remembered. "Ah, Clara's husband. The mysterious Guillaume."

Harriet snorted. "Hardly mysterious. You'd've hated him," she frowned, looked at the floor. "He was not kind to her, John."

He nodded, put on his vest. 

"He didn't like me, of course. I think I interrupted his plans to have her all to himself. She was practically a prisoner in her own home!"

"That's not unusual, Harriet."

"That doesn't make it right!" she said hotly, glaring at him from the door.

"I never said it did," he answered, sitting on the bed to put his boots on again. "So you're saying her husband is like her father?"

"I'm saying she married him - "

"I married him in order to get away from my family - " came a voice from the hallway.

Harriet cursed under her breath, cheeks turning red as she jerked off the wall.

Clara came in John's room, looking composed and calm, her eyes still red-rimmed. "You have to understand that I couldn't stay here, not after Evangeline did what she did. I couldn't take the chance that I'd be married beneath my station."

"Why don't we go downstairs and talk about this," suggest John, embarrassed by the state of his room, his dirty clothing on the chair where he had laid it, visible for Clara's perusal. 

Back in the parlour, Harriet filled a pot from the bucket and set it on the trivet, stoking the fire into a better draw and giving them the opportunity for tea before the hour was up.

John took the chair while Harriet and Clara sat on the sofa once more. 

"My older sister, Evangeline, was a good girl. I loved her as only a younger sister can love the elder. I followed her everywhere, through thicket and hedge, from river to pond, from the barn and once, all the way in to town. She was a wild spirit, was our Evangeline. But a good girl, a loving girl, a kind girl. When she was twelve, suitors began to arrive."

_Twelve!_ Jesus. John pursed his lips but otherwise held his tongue. 

"At that time Evangeline was spending a lot of time at our grandmama's. What we didn't know was that she had a beau while she was there. So it was that Mama discovered Evangeline was in the family way when she was fourteen. Papa wasn't told, you see. Within weeks she was married Charles Carpenter, a gentleman who owns Redlands Plantation. She had a beautiful little boy, who passed a few days later," Clara frowned, her fingers plucking at one another. 

"Charles is an older man, older even than Father. He didn't have children from his previous wives, Evangeline's son would have been his first. If..." Clara glanced at John, then Harriet, before returning her gaze to her lap. "If he had been the father. "

"But he married her anyway?" prompted Harriet.

"Yes, Mama was very grateful. Father...Father was irate. He thought Evangeline was too good for Charles. She deserved someone younger, with a larger plantation. A husband to bring him renown," she said, with a hollow chuckle. "Of course, the babe came early. Early enough for Father to be suspicious. He rode to Redlands in the afternoon, and when he came back, after dinner, it was to tell us the news that Evangeline's baby had died. I went with Mama the next day to see to Evangeline. She was in a terrible state. She refused to see Mama, would only speak to me. Charles was away, y'see, and she said Father had stormed into her room. And then - and then - " 

Clara covered her face with her hands and shook from the force of her sobbing. She took deep breaths until she had calmed down again. "Vangie said...she said Father killed the child."

Harriet gasped.

John sat straight up. "What? What did you say?"

"Vangie told me that Father killed her child. Said they'd argued and then he smacked her and when she woke up, the babe was dead."

"Oh my god - " Harriet shot to her feet and walked rapidly into the hallway, returning a moment later. "John - "

"If this is true, why didn't she go to the law?" asked John, saying the thing that had to be said, even though he himself didn't even believe what he was saying. 

"And say what? Who would believe her?" answered Clara, gesturing wildly. "When I told Mama, on the way home, she said I was lying and never to mention it to Father. Not that I would. You've seen what he's like with me just asking if we can bring Susannah home with us."

John had a sudden thought. "Do you think Evangeline might have said this in order to ...Oh, I don't even know."

"What?"

"Well, do you think she said what she said in order to get out of an unhappy marriage?"

Clara looked at John with a furrowed brow. "What makes you think she was unhappy?"

"I..."

"John doesn't understand the challenges we women face," said Harriet bitterly. " _He_ married for love."

John gritted his teeth. He didn't dare look at her, else he react as Clara's father had not long before. She had never met his Mary - she didn't know, _none_ of them knew. Yes, he had married for love. "As a doctor," he growled, "I have a _damned_ good idea of what women face!"

A shocked silence fell, neither Harriet nor Clara daring to look at him, which only served to make him more angry. He stood, checked the water in the pot. It was beginning to bubble, which was good enough for tea. No one spoke while he put four good spoons of tea leaves in the teapot, ladled in hot water, waited for it to mash. When he deemed the color good enough, he poured three cups, added sugar and milk to Harriet's, milk to Clara's, leaving his own plain.

After he handed the cups to his companions, John sat down again and crossed his legs. "An interesting story, yet I don't see a connection to what happened here."

"I think she's trying to explain, John," Harriet said primly. 

Clara patted Harriet's knee with what John found to be a truly sickeningly appreciative smile. 

"Indeed. As you can imagine, life here in Shambleau was troubled after the news broke. It was an open secret, that Vangie had gotten herself with child before she wed. There are some who say that Charles wasn't the father - " She glanced at John and shrugged a little. "in truth I very much doubt he was. They only met two weeks before their wedding. Oh, we knew who he was, he had come over for dinner with Pa and we had seen him at various social functions," she blew on her tea, took a sip. "She said to me once, and only once, that the child wasn't as light as she had been hoping."

Light? After a second John clocked what she meant and shook his head anew. To kill a child for their color, and color alone - sheer insanity.

"She slept with, with a _slave?_ " whispered Harriet, wide-eyed. She sat back, her nose wrinkling. "No, no. I can't believe that, Clara. You must be wrong."

"I can only repeat what she said, Harry," Clara clutched at Harriet's wrist, endangering the tea in her cup. "You mustn't say it again! Mention this to no one outside of this room!"

"Oh, of course not," said Harriet. John eyed her suspiciously. Harriet had a cruel streak in her, though admittedly it rarely saw the light of day. But if Clara were to say the wrong thing - he would have to ensure Harriet would let the matter rest. It wasn't any of her business, any more than it was his. Such knowledge was a heavy burden to bare, however, and he decided he would pull Clara aside later to tell her so. 

"Father is...well. You see what he's like. He firmly believes in the rule of law above all, and acts accordingly," said Clara, looking earnestly at John. "Evangeline knew she would have no place here once, she knew it would be impossible. So she married Charles and they seem happy enough? She has three children by him now, a girl and twin boys. After she was gone, I was the oldest child. Obviously Mama and Father were worried about me following in her path, not that I would, of course. 

"I attended church and for special treats went to town with Father, otherwise I stayed here at Shambleau. The first time I saw Guillaume, he was here on business with Father. A contract of some sort or another, I think, to send bales of tobacco in private cars to points West once it was shipped to Atlanta. Something like that, anyway."

Ah, Guillaume, the mythical husband John had never met, though he currently inhabited the man's house, and had taken over the man's practice. Gone to California, Harriet and Clara both said. Gone, but with no word. No letter, not even a random bloke stopping by the house with a few words scratched onto the back of a cow hide. Not even a whisper. It had been four years, only three more and he would be considered dead. A little fact that went right into Harriet and Clara's hands. John had known a few men in the Army who were so inclined to turn to one another, but it had never occurred to him that Harriet might share the same inclination. Others yes, of course, but his sister?

" - to get away from Father," Clara looked down at her hands again and chuckled. "Yet here I am."

"You're not staying, dear heart. We'll be back in Boston before you know it. Maybe even with Susannah in tow."

"I'm not so sure, Harry."

"Susannah?" asked John.

Harriet looked at him in exasperation. "Oh John, weren't you even listening?"

He shrugged. "Other things were on my mind."

"Clara wants Susannah to come to Boston with us. Now that Josephine is married and living in Atlanta, Susannah is getting the brunt of Mr. Davis's attention. We would like her to come and stay, meet new people, perhaps find a beau of her own."

G-d save him from the machinations of women. John gulped the rest of his tea - barely cool enough - and stood up. "I'll leave you to it. If anyone wants me I'll be upstairs, writing."

"John!" 

He ignored Harriet's call and headed directly for his room. Thank goodness he had thought to bring a flask of whisky. He was going to need it.

As soon as he stepped into the bedroom he knew he'd made a mistake. With a huff of annoyance he whipped around and rattled back down the stairs, mindful of the broken fifth step. 

"John!"

Harriet called, but he wasn't interested. He blew out the door like a Nor'easter, fast and strong and unwilling to be moved by the pleas of gentler folk. He struck out randomly on the road without taking too much care of where he was going. After awhile he stopped, bent over to catch his breath. Christ, he had been on the verge of running! Odd how he hadn't noticed it, now that the nerves in his leg were being plucked like the strings of a violin. Straightening up, he saw that he was at the edge of a field of...whatever it was, it wasn't corn. Similar stalk, however. Some kind of bamboo, perhaps? Maybe someone had invested in wicker furniture? He realized there were hands staring at him, and an overseer riding towards him.

_Shite._

As the overseer drew closer, John removed his had and waved it in the overseer's general direction. "Evening!" he called. 

"Evenin'. Sir." 

The 'sir' was a definite afterthought. John had heard enough of that insolent tone in the Army, had used it enough himself, to know exactly what the overseer thought of him.

The overseer was a slight man with full mustachios and teeth blackened from chewing so much tobacco (which was possibly the most disgusting thing John had seen in America, yet). He rode up on John, tipped his head back a little and gave John the once-over. "You on Mr. Littleton's land. Sir."

"Yes. I was just taking a fast walk. Aids in the digestion," which was helpful, considering he hadn't actually eaten dinner yet. "Could you, ah, tell me which way I should go back to return?"

"Back the way you came, go left up the rise." the overseer motioned with the whip, looking at John as thought he were an idiot.

John nodded his thanks, resolutely put his back to the odious man. Reminded him of a red-headed lieutenant he'd once had to train. Bastard had gotten himself shot in the gut the first day out by an angry Sepoy, who was in turn hung. That was long ago, though, and John should endeavour to keep such memory out of his head. There was shouting behind him, and he couldn't help but turn to see what was happening. There was a woman kneeling on the ground, her back exposed to the virulence of the late afternoon summer sun. The Overseer stood slightly to one side, his horse well out of the way, beating the woman with the coiled whip. With every blow she shouted something - John couldn't quite make out what. The other field hands were watching, still holding hoes and rakes. As soon as the punishment ended, they bent to their work, seemingly ignoring what had just occurred. John shook his head, stomach roiling at such abuse. The woman was crying even as she staggered to her feet. Another woman started towards her, but the overseer yelled "Stay back!", or something to that effect, for she stopped where she was and set her hoe to the ground once more.

John turned away, disgusted by what he had seen, and shamed by his own hesitation over whether or not to help. Yet would he have made it better or worse? He pondered this on his way back to the house, resolving nothing by the time he was trotting up the stairs of the Annex.

Despite John's misgivings, they attended dinner in the main house after all. The room was small and intimate. So small and intimate, in fact, that there was nothing in it but the table and matching chairs. Windows flanked either side of the fire place, and below them, two plant stands with beautiful ferns spraying upwards out of glazed white pots with a brown and red geometric design. The pots were very...very not what John would have thought either Sarah or her husband would have in their house for decoration. The walls were a pleasant and deep green, soothing on the eye. 

The table was set for five, so no children would be in attendance unless they stood along the walls. 

Littleton took the seat at the head of the table, naturally. His wife sat to his left, Clara to his right, with Harriet next to her and John across Harriet. An interesting seating arrangement, but that was fine, John was happy enough to converse with anyone except Littleton. 

Dinner was another stupendous selection of food. Fresh oysters, a whole roasted chicken, mushroom soup, buttered peas, cornbread, sweet and sour pickles, boiled potatoes, creamed spinach with tiny white onions, cheeses and bread and fruit pies and shelled nuts. It was a repast John found overwhelming, and he knew he would sleep well from over eating. Not his usual habit by any means, yet he felt the need to eat and appreciate what his hosts offered. Everyone else heartily partook of the feast as well, and he didn't want to be the odd man out - not here when he couldn't just pick up and go, not and leave Clara and Harriet here by themselves.

The conversation at the table, though stilted, grew warmer as Clara enthused about life in Boston. John inwardly groaned as he realized exactly what she was doing. He sent Harriet a pleading look, which she returned with the slightest 'what can you do?' shrug. 

"It's a wonderful town, with much to recommend it. There are museums and schools, there are plenty of gentlemen to meet from all over the world. "

"You can find those right here," said Mrs. Littleton, her lips pursed as though she had tasted something bitter. "Charleston, Atlanta, even New Orleans."

Harriet darted a look at Clara, then John. "Isn't...Isn't New Orleans very far away? A thousand miles, at least? Philadelphia is much closer, and equal in learning to Boston."

_Oh g-d_. John concentrated on his slice of vinegar pie. It was far too sweet for his taste, but it kept his mouth busy.

"That's not the point," said Clara, glancing at Harriet a little desperately, then at John, clearly hoping for support. "It was good enough for me, why can't it be good enough for Susannah? Besides, we have John to keep an eye on her, as well as Harriet."

John swallowed wrong and coughed, furiously blinking back tears until the fit subsided. He drank some water, cleared his throat. "Of course, of course."

Clara beamed at him. "Mama, consider it, please. Between the three of us, it would be easy to keep an eye on her. And there's Jingle, too, and Eliza and Hartwell to keep Susannah company should she miss her brothers and sisters."

"Jingle?" asked Mrs. Littleton, her eyes narrowing.

When Clara didn't immediately respond, John said, "The cook and cleaner. "

"A slave."

John nodded. "Yes."

"She's been with Guillaume since she was a small child," added Clara eagerly. "He gave her to me as a wedding gift, along with a new wardrobe and a diamond pendant."

The litany of property was disturbing, and John caught Harriet looking equally uncomfortable.

"You're a medical doctor," Littleton said abruptly, staring at John.

"Yes."

"Good, you can look at the hands tomorrow."

John leaned forward ever so slightly. "Sorry?"

"You can look at the hands tomorrow," repeated Littleton, spreading butter on a slice of bread. "While you're here."

Ah. The way in which Littleton expected John to make amends for interrupting his tete-a-tete with Clara. As if threatening to beat his own child was something he expected John to overlook. 

The silence must have gone for too long, for Clara said, "John?"

Well. It would cost John nothing to help her father. He wouldn't forget what he had seen, but if it helped Clara, he could live with doing what had to be done. "Of course. I'll do what I can."

Later on, after a cup of hot tea and a bit of reading, in the middle of undressing for bed, there was a soft knock at John's door. With a sigh and an eye roll, John flung his tie in the direction of the bureau and opened the door. Harriet. Of course.

She sidled in, closing the door behind herself. "Thank you for doing this. We know you don't want to."

"It's fine," he said, actually meaning it. "It'll give me something to do other than wander the lanes and wonder what the hell I'm doing in this country."

"Oh John - "

Oh _g-d_ , she was going to - 

"Have you considered remarrying? It won't sully your Mary's memory, not one little bit, I promise."

Tired, still feeling the effect of too much food, a little anxious about what the morning would bring, he rounded on her. "I'll never marry again, Harry, not ever!"

"John - "

Closing his eyes, he held up both hands in the hopes of forestalling her next words. "Can we just not do this tonight?"

"Yes, of course," she answered. After a moment, she spoke again. "Did you see him eat that cornbread? Crumbs on his shirt like feathers from a pillow." 

Eager to start a new topic, John flashed her a smile. "I know. Appalling manners. How she came from here, I just don't know."

Harriet chuckled, sat on the bed. She looked at him, grinned conspiratorially, whispered, "Jingle says Clara was as quiet as a mouse, never spoke a word to her for the first three days."

"Hard to imagine that now," he said, removing his silver cufflinks and dropping them into the little dish on top of the dresser. Then he sat next to her, untying his boots. "Anyway, you'll both owe me one."

"Will not."

"Yes, yes you will."

She sighed dramatically. "All right, fine. But I make no promises that we'll do whatever you want, when you want."

"As has ever been the case," he answered. He stood, made shooing motions at her. "Now go on, I've a busy day tomorrow."

 

~*~

 

After breaking his fast on hot biscuits, thick bacon, and a cup of coffee so strong he was forced to add an extra lump of sugar, John gathered his medical bag and headed towards the big house. Waiting for him next to the porch steps was a slave in neatly patched trousers and tunic, both ill-fitting, the color of each a faded brown that spoke of well washed hand-me-downs. His boots were more hand-me-downs, scuffed at the toe and heel, cut down low around the ankle and as well patched as his clothing. 

He held his hat in his hands and nodded as John approached. "Sir."

"Good morning," John said, trying on a smile to see how it felt. "What's your name?"

"Jolly, sir. I'm to bring you see to the hands, sir."

John surreptitiously looked him over as they made their way to the slave houses. Jolly was old, older than John had first suspected. Genuinely old, not just from the hard labour he had clearly been subjected to. He was missing his little finger entirely on his right hand, and to the second knuckle on his ring finger. He didn't walk so much as shuffle. Even through his color, John could see how thin the skin on his hands and neck was, how fine his wiry hair, how it receded from his scalp. "What is it you do?"

"I works as I can, sir. I watch the little childrens when they mothers in the fields, and stir the pots on the fire as need be."

"That's good work," answered John, a little desperately. He almost wished he'd said nothing at all, but he was curious. He'd never had an opportunity like this before, and G-d willing, never would again.

"I likes to be useful, sir."

"Don't we all."

Jolly led John around the corner of the house, back on the lane he had traveled the day before. Now he was hideously embarrassed, recognizing all the people whom he had run past, twice, without greeting. Or perhaps they would never expect such a courtesy from a white man. 

Slaves were sitting on the porches, watching him warily as he stopped in front of the first house on the left of the double row. Jolly said something John couldn't catch, a mix of English and some kind of patois. John didn't need to understand what Jolly said in order to understand that it was an order, for the woman standing in the doorway folded her arms and stared down at them both with a hauteur matched only by that of Queen Victoria herself. Jolly repeated what he said in a firmer tone of voice, and the woman stepped aside.

"This way, sir."

John followed Jolly up the stairs and inside. Contrary to what he had expected, while the house was far from light, it did not smell foul and the floor was swept clean of debris. In one corner was a pile of folded blankets, in another a pair of stools and a bucket. The tools of the kitchen were stacked next to the fireplace, which was double-fronted, leading to the other half of the single room. There were several glassless windows, each with a shutter thrown open for a fresh breeze. All in all, it was better than he had been led to believe and from what he had read in the Northern papers. It was, in fact, better than the slums of London.

Someone in the other half of the room groaned, and John immediately headed in that direction. The woman made as if to step in front of him, but Jolly pulled her to one side. John took note of the flash of fear in her eyes, the way she stopped, yet clearly wanted to protect whomever was sick...from _him_. He went around the chimney breast and stopped short.

In front of him was a young man on the floor. He lay on a pallet of dried grasses, a blanket to one side. He wore only a long, old fashioned night shirt, and no trousers. The shirt was soaked through with blood, and John realized that had been the underlying scent he had smelled outside. It was a familiar from Cawnpore, the odor of fresh blood and old sweat. John refrained from shuddering and went to deal with his patient.

"Who's this, then?" he asked, kneeling down stiffly. 

"Sambo," said the woman sharply. "He's got the fever. Nothing that needs looking at."

"Let me be the judge of that," John answered calmly. Sambo was slightly warm but nothing that would account for the amount of sweat. His eyes glittered in the low light, yet again, he was aware of John and his surroundings, following John's hand as he did a few simple tests. Sambo's belly was slightly distended and when John palpated it, Sambo batted his hands away roughly.

"You mustn't mind him," said Jolly hastily. "He's been like this for two days, it always passes." 

John glanced at the woman, said, "She might want to go to the other room for this next part."

The woman folded her arms again and shook her head. Fine, fine. John pulled the night shirt up, grimaced at the sight before him. Beads of blood oozed from a shallow cut low in his belly. John wiped his hands with a rag sprinkled with the gin he always carried in his medical bag. It wasn't soap and water, but that was clearly not going to happen in this environment.

Sambo's torso was wet but clean. His genitals were normal, and the distention of his belly could have been from gas or worms or some sort of intestinal blockage. It was mild, however. Noticeable, but mild. There was nothing with his front, which only left his back. "I'll need help turning him over."

The woman came forward and with John directing her, managed to roll him onto his side, keeping him form moving while John made his investigations. At the blood, John had assumed Sambo had been whipped, much like that field hand the day before. There were no fresh marks on his back, however. John frowned, carefully ran his fingers lightly over the Sambo's back. He could feel plenty of scar tissue, yet nothing new. How... he bend over further, wishing he had a lamp or even, better yet, under an army tent outside. Yeah, there would be no privacy, everyone would be staring - he put the though to the back of his mind, now was the not the time to think of what he could have done, only what he was going to do now.

A sudden amount of blood gushed from Sambo's nether region.

Ah.

John looked, but as he suspected there wasn't much he could do. Sambo had been savagely abused - John had seen enough of this sort of thing after prisoner exchanges, and on the battlefield. So long as infection didn't set in, Sambo had a chance of living a mostly normal life.

"All right, you can let him down again. Well, I don't think there's anything I can do for him. I can make a poultice that you can use against his...injury. Truth be told, you're already doing everything right. You say the fever will pass?"

"Yes'm," answered Jolly. 

Jolly was bent over even further than before, leaving John to wonder who would be taking care of Jolly when his usefulness was over. His leg was complaining about the amount of time he had spent on the floor, but he managed to rise after flicking the nightshirt back over Sambo's hips. "I need to wash my hands before I see the next patient. Is there any soap in the house? I'll need a bucket of water at the very least."

The woman provided a rough bar made of the crudest soap John could even imagine. He always took the time to wash his hands between patients, as Dr. Semmelweis suggested. Such a simple thing, yet in John's experience he found it saved more lives than practically anything else. After drying his hands, he gathered his bag and waited for Jolly to show him the way.

By noon John had had enough. More than enough. Enough for lifetimes. Enough of ragged clothing and children peeping at him from behind shuttered eyes. The deep scarring of backs and sides, missing limbs, old burns. On more than one occasion his patient turned away from John, refusing to answer any of his questions and making him feel quite useless. Nonetheless, he doled out powders, wrote several scrips before putting them back into his pocket for his meeting with Littleton. Hopefully he would be able to go to Whitingham and find a chemist, buy the raw ingredients for what he needed.

He set cleaned infections from whipped skin, pulled two teeth, bound stab wounds and cracked ribs and broken limbs, stitched and dressed slashes from barbed wire. He could not think of anything that would give a person slashes from barbed wire. He didn't want to consider there might be some who would use barbed wire deliberately. 

Either word had gotten around, or the hands were too desperate, for as noon turned to late afternoon, John began to fear for his sanity. The world had turned into a mass of brown bodies. He was dizzy with the needs of the many by the time Jolly pulled him away. "There's another one?" asked John, hoping against hope he was done for the day.

"Yes sir. But you done for now," answered a woman who was not Jolly, which was also good because she was pretty, and Jolly was most certainly not. 

"Sorry, who are you?"

The woman took him by the arm and helped him up from the floor. "You can call me Mary, sir."

She didn't much sound like she was from here, either. Or she didn't work in the fields. "You work in the house?"

"I'm new here, sir."

That would explain her clothing. Like Jolly's it was clean, and in a style Clara would approve of, though John suspected she would call the fashion out of date. A sprigged calico in olive green that suited her coffee and cream mulatto skin. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to stare."

"That's quite all right, Dr. Watson. Why don't we go back to the house and I'll get you some tea?"

"All right. But first, tell me your name?"

"Mary."

Mary. Her name was Mary. In his exhaustion, John found he could not stop comparing her to his Mary. In gentle light, this Mary could almost pass for white. It was the underlying cast to her skin, once they were outside in the bright sunlight, that made it obvious. His Mary, now, with her long black hair and large black eyes, her calm acceptance of him, her intelligence. The kinks in this Mary's brown hair, however, tendrils of which had escaped from her bun, were further proof of her bloodline. She flashed him a soft smile at him, and for the first time since he had left India, John felt an answering spark within.

He perked up enough to turn back to Jolly, said, "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Yessir."

It wasn't until he was seated in the parlour of the main house, eating a thin slice of raisin pie that he realized how ravenous he was, to boot. He was also grateful the inhabitants of the house appeared to be elsewhere. Only Mary kept him company, and she sat dociley on the couch, working on a scene in a hoop. John watched her stitch smoothly, without doubt or hesitation, drawing the thread up, down, up, and down again. Every so often she held the hoop up, tilting her head this way and that. "Are you admiring or criticising the work?"

"Oh," she said, smiling that lovely smile and glancing up at him beneath long, lowered lashes. "Both, I think."

"For your trousseau?"

"No, a little project for my niece, Carolina. She's only four, but I thought I would make her an alphabet for the wall of the schoolroom. Something for her to try and achieve herself."

John wiped his mouth with a napkin and wondered if there was any polite way to ask for another slice of pie. "That's very kind of you."

"It keeps me occupied. But less of what I'm doing, Dr. Watson. Are you intrigued by our little plantation here?"

Intrigued? John sat back slowly, trying to parse exactly what she meant. Had her tone been ever so slightly mocking? He had found such verbal sparring a subtlety that was quite common in America, contrary to what most of his fellow Englishmen believed. "Well, this is the first plantation I've ever been to and it's quite charming. In its way."

She put the hoop down on her lap to gaze directly at him. "In its way? You mean you expected more squalor and filth amongst the slaves?"

Taken aback by her bitterness, John hastened to explain himself. "No, no, of course not. It's just that what you may read in the newspapers doesn't always show the whole truth."

She conceded the point with a single nod. "True enough, Dr. Watson. I, for one, expected a rather more portly fellow, upon hearing that an English doctor was visiting us with Clara. I had, in face, expected a happy announcement, but I see that is not the case."

John blinked. "Ye-es," he said slowly, because something was not right, here. "I believe Clara has another year, possibly two, before she is legally free from her husband. Wherever he may be."

"She will come into quite an inheritance."

"I suppose. I'd never given it any thought," Which was true. Until Mary had mentioned it, it had never occurred to him that Clara would inherit her husband's vast fortune. Assuming Guillaume had left it to her as a matter of course. Assuming he hadn't already spent all the money. For John had no idea as to the state of Clara's finances. He knew there was enough money for household expenses, and Clara had never asked him for coin, though Harriet did on a regular basis. Clara did not, now that he was giving it some attention, even ask him for rent money, despite him taking over Silas' practice. Maybe Guillaume had left her a fund she could dip into and out of at will? 

"Your Harriet is a lucky woman."

John came out of his reminiscence quick. "Oh?"

"I was merely thinking that she's a lucky woman, to live with Clara. Her husband did not want to keep the children?"

Oh, this Mary was treading on very thin ice. Her large eyes, which had appeared fathomless and kind only so little ago, now were bottomless black pits of envy and greed. Her lush lips and bright smile turned to the hunger of a shark seeing a lost sailer. Well, he was no fool, thank you very much. He stood up, let his face fall into the approximation of a smile. "The pie was delicious and much appreciated, but I must be getting back to the task Mr. Littleton set me."

She stood as well, took a step towards him, clearly thought better of it at the last moment. "I'm sure my father will give you more should you but ask."

Her _father?_. How curious. Clara hadn't mentioned Mary once, not in all the time he had known her, not in the minutes, hours, and days before they had arrived here or indeed, any time thereafter. "No doubt. If you'll excuse me, I'll let you get back to your embroidery."

And with a slight inclination of his head instead of a bow, John made his way out of the house and back towards slave row, fuming with every step. How _dare_ she try and malign Clara in front of him! To suggest that Harriet was an unfit mother and undeserving of her children! Admittedly he felt a bit of guilt over that one, he had his doubts about Harriet's ability to parent, too, at times. Yet Mary had no right to say such a thing, and on such short notice. In fact...John slowed down, frowning. Had they even met? How did Mary know about Harriet's marriage? Or Clara's, for that matter? Neither one of them was prone to gossiping to complete strangers, and so far he had seen no indication that Clara and her parents were confidants. If anything, they were the reverse.

Mary did resemble Littleton's other children, however, and if he recalled rightly there was rather an age gap between the eldest child, Josephine, and the next, Clara. That would have been an opportune time for Littleton to breed his slaves. John shuddered. 

Which of course was ridiculous. No slave-owner would wait for any 'opportune time' to breed a slave, they did it because they wanted to, end of. In truth, John couldn't get his head around the concept. Enslaving people was one thing, deliberately breeding them, as if they were livestock...oh g-d, that was the whole point of it, wasn't it? Thanks to Clara and Harriet, John had heard plenty of speeches and sermons and fiery orations on the matter of slavery, and now he found it almost unimaginable that there were plenty of men who found it perfectly reasonable to do such things to their property.

It was a foul deed, to mis-use people so.

John returned to the house on slave row where he was holding his impromptu surgery. It had been Jolly's suggestion, to stay in one place and have the patients come to him. John was sure there were people who couldn't or wouldn't come to the house, and he was right, for as soon as Jolly spied him, he shuffle-hustled right over to John. 

"Sir!" he whispered loudly. "There are only four more to see, and I'll need to take you to them. Sir."

"You can stop calling me 'sir'," John reminded Jolly. "I'm an invalided Army Captain, nothing more, nothing less. I'd prefer it if you called my Dr. Watson."

Jolly brought John to a different house. It had the same layout, save there was a clay cup of flowers sitting in the door sill. Oddly, for the warmth of the day, the window shutters were down and the door closed. Jolly threw John a glance he couldn't interpret, and then they were inside. 

The only light was from the fireplace and the coals therein. The room was roasting and John immediately felt perspiration start on his forehead. A groan to his right answered the question he had been about to ask. Making his way through the gloom and the oppressive heat, John knelt by the woman on the floor. Like Sambo, she was dressed only in a sweat soaked night shirt, one as tattered and threadbare as most of the other clothing the slaves wore with the exception of Mary.

She wasn't quite writhing, but she was the constant motion of the person in a great deal of pain. She stretched her legs, rolled her head from side to side, could obviously not find comfort in the minute or so that John watched her. He crouched, felt her forehead and yes, there it was, that same, slightly elevated temperature. So why did they call it 'the fever'? 

She caught sight of him and her eyes opened wide as she surged up from the pallet, sucking in a breath that seemed to almost be the sigh of a woman eagerly waiting her lover. Confused, John caught and held her as she came up close to his mouth quicker than he thought. As he jerked back, her sultry look changed when she frowned, turning away with a moue of disgust and going limp in the process. She wasn't unconscious, John wasn't so foolish as to think that. However, he lowered her to the pallet, wiped his wet hands free of the perspiration on her back. That answered the question about the fever certainly. But what about the rest of her?

Jolly was hovering behind John, as close as he could without interrupting John's examination. It was the closest he had been all day, and it was making John itchy between his shoulder blades. Finally he stood up, said. "All right, out with it."

Bowing and scraping with his cap in hand, Jolly shook his head. "No, sir, dint mean to disturb you, sir. She's my sister's daughter, sir, only one I got on this farm."

Eying him strongly out of the corner of his eye, John continued on. She was uninjured apart from her legs, which held scratches from the now long familiar barbed wire. The woman twisted this way and that, her night shirt riding up - up - up, until most of her legs were exposed. She had urinated recently, too, her thighs slick with it. Hadn't yet started to smell, for which John was thankful. "Well," he said, standing up with a wince at the pain in his leg. "Like Sambo, there's not much I can do for her. You're using folk medicine?"

Jolly nodded. 

"Keep on doing what you're doing, and come for me if anything changes, all right?"

Jolly nodded again, and it seemed to John he relaxed fractionally. John didn't know why, it wasn't as if he was going to send her off to an asylum, if one existed for the negroes. Maybe out West. He had heard there were free black towns out there, maybe Lestrade would know.

He was brought to one other cabin, this one like the first with the shutters thrown wide open. A stern looking man, no, a boy, really, a tall boy stood on the top step, not moving aside as Jolly and John started up the steps. He didn't seem inclined to let John through, but Jolly spoke his unintelligible speech at the boy, who glared at John and then disappeared inside. Gearing himself up for a confrontation, John entered the building. 

A woman holding a baby, two very young children - twins! - hanging on to her skirts and sucking their thumbs stood next to one of the ubiquitous pallets, where another woman lay. She was on her front, and John could see the white of one of her eyes as she tried to see who was walking toward her. A torn sheet covered her from the waist down...enough to highlight the raw ruin that was her back. The skin was ropey and swollen with whip marks, crusty with blood in some areas. The boy sat next to her, keeping the flies away with a fan of woven leaves.

The wounds were not very old, leading John to believe that this was the woman he had seen being beaten the day before. Once again he knelt down, gritting his teeth at his sore kneecaps, and started to roll up his sleeves. "I'll need clean water, boiled if you have it, hot or cold, and soap. If you don't, have someone run up to the Annex and tell Miss Harriet or Miss Clara to give you some. Have you got anything for her to bite down on?"

And so it went. As it turned out, there was soap available - to John's relief. While he wasn't going to hesitate to ask Harriet or Clara for something, he really didn't want to get them involved. His stitches were still neat, even this late in the day, although he was quite exhausted. The fact of the matter was that he was no longer young. Training and all the action he had seen stood him in good stead, yes, but the day was coming where any surgery beyond the nature of this was going to be difficult.

By the time he was done with the slave, her back was tidy, though inflamed. Well, it was the best he could do. With any luck their home remedies would keep her from getting infected. He shook his head. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to make the situation any better. G-d help him. This was the kind of work that sucked at the soul of a man. Of course, he hadn't discovered that until he had been shot. He had been too busy enjoying himself up until those last days…

John paused, grimaced and struggled to get to his feet again. Someone offered him a hand up; he gladly took it, cursing his own weakness at the same time. Worst of all, another steading hand appeared on his other side and he had to take that, too. That was it, he had to go. He could do more in the morning. Without looking anyone in the eye, he suffered his instruments to be handled by the hands of strangers, cleaned and dried with rags that he only recognized as clothing after a shirt was shaken out and hung by the shoulders from two nails in the wall. This knowledge only served to make him feel worse; these people had nothing apart from their their dignity, and here he was, bemoaning his own aches and pains. He should be shot for pitying himself. "Put cool comfrey poultices on, but don't leave them on for too long. I'll come back and see how she's doing in the morning."

Jolly escorted John back to the Annex using an small oil lamp on the end of a stick to light their way. "Thank you, sir."

John shook his head. "It was nothing."

"Yes, sir."

Now feeling like an idiot, John repeated that he would be back in the morning and walked the rest of the way in silence. Hartwell and Eliza were nowhere to be found, to John's great relief. He was not up to the task of dealing with two very energetic children after such a long day. Clara and Harriet were gone as well, leaving him the entirety of the Annex. Unfortunately there was a note on his bed, which requested he come to the house when he was ready for a meal and a recitation of songs by the masters. John groaned and crushed the letter in both hands. The very last thing he wanted to do…but it would be impolite not to, so. He washed. Rinsed his hair free of sweat and bugs, heated a metal spoon from his bag on the candle flame and applied it to the raised welts of his mosquito bites. Almost instantaneously the itch went away, leaving him to sigh in relief.

Unbelievably, dinner went quickly. Perhaps because the older children were there as well, and provided welcome escape from any distressing conversation. At least until Littleton issued a demand for John to join him in his study. 

Littleton poured brandy into a glass, held it out until John reluctantly took it. Brandy had never been his tipple. 

"Sit, please."

John did as bid. He glanced around the room, which was pleasantly masculine in style. Quite classical, actually, with its marine blue walls and white trim. The furniture was comfortably stuffed, with a minimum of chintz.

Littleton muttered something John couldn't hear under his breath, taking a poker and shoving the logs around in the fireplace a bit. It didn't seem to make any difference to the fire than John could see. Finally Littleton sat down in the chair opposite John and took a sip of brandy. He sucked air through his teeth afterward, shook his head. "Excellent vintage, " he proclaimed. "Good Spanish brandy. With what's in the air I thought it prudent to buy several cases, just in case."

"Of course," murmured John.

He knew things were fraught, politically, but he had his doubts as to whether things would come to a head. 

"Dr. Watson, I need your help," said Littleton, crossing his legs. He gazed steadily at John. "My breeding program has fallen foul in the past two years. Healthy children are dying at a rate far higher than before. My overseer, Mr. Temple - I believe you met him earlier today - tells me that the stock gets pregnant easily and quickly, yet the ones I breed fall into a malaise with affects the offspring. I'm sure you understand that I cannot bear this, financially. I have no wish to buy new stock at this time, so I need to go through and pick out the stock that is no longer useful to me."

"Are you...talking about your field hands?" asked John before taking a sip of brandy. A good thing, too, as he nearly choked from the fire going down his throat. 

Littleton's brows drew down even as he huffed a laugh. "Northerners. Of course I'm talking about the slaves. My father refined his stock to the current group, as did his father before him, and my goal is to refine them even further, make them the paragons of the industry, much like Captain Smith did with his crew. Of course Shambleau's breeding program is more than one hundred years old, and Smith's only thirty. Nonetheless, I know it can be done, I merely need your medical sense to determine which one are the best. The healthiest, the youngest able to bear, that sort of thing."

_That sort of thing_. What did Littleton think John was, a pimp? Because he was not going to pimp himself out for anyone, least of all Joseph Littleton. "That's out of my purview," he said. At Littleton's beginning splutter, John held up his free hand. "I've already started looking over your slaves while I'm here -" _damned_ if he was going to refer to the slaves as stock, they were still human beings! " - but I will not pick out the best for you. I'm sure your overseer will be able to do that without my help."

Littleton's lip curled. He contemplated John for a long moment, then nodded. "That will be fine, thank you. Did you find anything out of the ordinary in your travels today?"

"I found many people with fresh whip marks, some of which could get infected if not allowed to heal properly. You should tell your Mr. Temple to not be so rough on them."

Littleton threw his head back and guffawed. "Rough on them? These darkies are used to hard labor, it's what the good Lord made them for. They heal as quick as beasts, so there's no need to concern yourself overmuch."

Tightlipped, John shook his head.

Littleton frowned. "Clara tells me your one of the best doctors in Boston. Can't you at least tell me whether or not that fever has anything to do with the breeding?"

"I'm afraid not," John answered. He realized he was gripping his glass too tightly and set it on the small table between the two of them, for fear he would crush it in his hand. "I understand you have local doctors who investigate the reproductivity of female slaves."

"Yes, but they're not here, and you are," Littleton tossed back his brandy, then stared at John. "Well. This has been most informative."

"I'm sorry, field hands aren't my area. Having said that, there are things you could do to improve their stamina. Give them more rest being the first, and more food the second. Give them mid-day breaks, if you can, let them recover from being under the sun."

"Mmm."

After a few more seconds of uncomfortable staring, Littleton got to his feet and poured himself another drink. He stood before the fire, looking into its depths, though what he found there was unknown to John. Funny, how ready John had been to discuss the slaves upon his afternoon amongst them, and how unwilling he was to do so now. Maybe because he hadn't understood the depths of the depravity. Breeding program? It was beyond anything he had ever heard of or experienced, and he had been to Lucknow, he had been to Cawnpore - he had done…things.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. I'm sure you're tired."

John came to with a start. "Yes, yes I am," he stood, bowed slightly at Littleton, who still had his back to John. "Good night."

Two days later, John having gone through the rest of the slave shacks and revisited several patients with Jolly by his side, he found himself with a free day with the rest of his family. He was happy enough to take the day off, for all of his patients were recovering, each in his or her own slow way. John was impressed with their level of care. It seemed to him that though he was still treated as…a foreigner, rather than an enemy, people were a bit more at their ease around him. The women no longer held their children back from him, and two even allowed him to hold their babies. He was not a man for tremendous feeling around babies, but these two little ones were so sweet, so fat and happy and smiling. Strange pangs ran through him, and he handed them back as decently quick as he could, his Mary's beautiful smile haunting him. She had been a marvel with children - he shook his head to clear it, and moved on to the next patient.

It was decided to have a picnic for their luncheon. With two slaves carrying all the accoutrements necessary, John, Harriet, Clara, and Susannah found a spot under a tree by the river. The day was pleasant in the extreme, neither too hot nor too muggy, sunny with a few pure, fluffy white clouds and a breeze strong enough to keep away the bugs.

"Oh, this was a brilliant idea, Clara!" exclaimed Harriet, wandering to the water's edge. 

John glanced up and was taken with the image of his sister. She looked like a Lady in a French painting, in her subtly striped white-on-white dress, her dark honey coloured hair shining in the sunlight, smiling happily as she peeled a strip of grass into tendrils, more sunlight glinting off the glass-like river behind her, the green of the forest on the other side only serving to highlight the pretty scene. John didn't ordinarily think of her as beautiful, but in this instance she could have be-spelled the King of England. 

Under the tree, Clara laughed as she spread a blanket on the ground. "Yes, I thought so! The day is too pretty to waste being cooped up inside the house, teaching the children their manners."

Leaning against the tree, John watched Clara open one of the baskets and start to remove plates. She was much more obviously pretty, with a delicate figure - if he were her doctor he would suggest she try and eat a little more - in a cream calico gown and sturdy boots made for walking. Though she frequently only put her brunette hair up in a plain bun, today she had made an effort to impress, with large curls framing either side of her face. 

"John, would you open the bottles?" she asked, putting a basket of forks, knives, and spoons on the blanket.

"Of course," he answered. There were three jugs in the second basket, and inside of them was water, sweet cider, and, to his great surprise, beer. "I'll leave them in the river to cool down."

"Wonderful, thank you."

He found a shallow spot and plunked the jugs down, nearly falling into the river as he made sure the jugs weren't going to fall over or be swept away. He thought the current was a little too slow for that to be an issue, but he didn't fancy taking a chance with them, either. He, for one, was not going to back to the big house to get more. As soon as the thought occurred he realized that was a foolish sentiment. After all, it had been three slaves who had carried the lot here in the first place. They had retreated some way away, within shouting distance. He hoped they had brought a meal of their own to share, but as he was coming to understand, what he thought would be fair treatment for them was not something that was shared by Littleton. It had become clear that Osawatomie Brown and Mr. Douglass and Father Stowe had many points indeed in their favor.

"Susannah, shall we play tennis before we eat?" 

Clara's question reminded John that there was one more to their party, one of the older girls. She was the one Clara and Harriet wanted to bring back to Boston, so he supposed it behooved him to actually get to know the girl. It would only be in their best interests.

"No, I'm hungry."

John found himself getting hungrier at the click of knives against plates and returned to the blanket, finding the perfect spot in order to use the tree as a backrest while still eating. It was a good position for his leg and his shoulder. And it let him peruse Susannah without her being aware of it. She shared the family traits with Clara; a thin frame that needed filling out, odd, storm grey eyes, long fingers. From there, things were different. Her hair was dark auburn, her gaze direct, which he found a little shocking in someone so young, a constant wariness. He sincerely hoped he was not to blame for that bit. He didn't think he was. As much as he was never going to mention it to Clara, he found the atmosphere of the house oppressive. For all the classical hand in decoration, Shambleau was tainted by the feeling that a person was waiting for something unpleasant to happen. Maybe it was the Bibles, John didn't know. Or rather, he knew he had no argument with G-d, and quite frankly preferred to let the G-dbothering to other people. And if he never mentioned the proselytizers in his own family background, what of it? Grandfather James, who had been a member of the Free Kirk of Scotland, and had never stopped trying to bring his own son and daughter-in-law back into the fold? Or Auntie Annie, who had gone in the complete opposite direction and pledged her service to the Pope?

Susannah glanced at him and he smiled back. 

"Clara, are you leaving soon?" Susannah asked, her voice just a little thick.

Clara spooned dressed potatoes onto a plate, added a few slices of pickle. "Soon enough, yes. In the next few days, I expect."

Which was new to John, but news he was thankful for. It wasn't that he hated the Littletons, he was just...he didn't...there was no honor in owning slaves. Pay a man a fair wage for fair work, that had been the conclusion John had reached within a few hours of arriving at Shambleau. Besides, it seemed to him that escaping Shambleau should be something all the children would want to do. Why only Josephine, Clara, and now Susannah had gotten away was a question for a later day.

"We've matters to attend to in Boston, and John can't keep away from his patients forever," said Clara, who then looked at John. "However much he might want to."

John made an overly shocked gasp. " _Want to?_ Why on earth would I want to keep away from the people who are adding to the rolls and paying my bills?"

Clara raised a skeptical eyebrow, handed him a plate of sliced ham. "Harriet! It's time to eat!"

"I'll just get the drinks," Harriet called back.

John carefully watched her to make sure she didn't fall into the river. It was relatively shallow and crystal clear, the bottom could be seen with ease, but John knew how easily a woman could drown in those hoops and skirts. Had, in fact, seen it. A horrible death. Though there were others that were worse.

She managed to get all three jugs and carried them back, awkward with their weight and their tiny handles. She set them down and scowled at John. "Thank you, I managed without your help."

"What?" he said in mock outrage. "You never say you want help with anything!"

"Now now," said Clara, holding out a plate of cheese slices and butter curls. "Let's not fight in front of the young one."

I'm not young," Susannah piped up. "Mr. Davis says I'm ripe to be married."

A shocked silence fell as all three adults looked at her.

"Mr. Davis?" asked Harriet, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Is he one of your neighbors?"

"No, ma'am," said Susannah earnestly. "He's one of Father's partners in Atlanta."

"And...is he a gentleman? How old is he, you must tell us all about him," added Clara. She opened a small jar of corn relish and stuck a spoon into it.

Susannah shrugged, looking down at her empty plate.

"Too old?" ventured John, helping himself to ham, a slice of cheese.

She shrugged again, and behind her back Harriet shot John a look that spoke volumes as to his idiocy. He rolled his eyes. He'd never been a fourteen year old girl, what did he know of marriage to an older man? Although, from the perspective of an older man, he found the idea rather horrifying. G-d, no. If he was in other company he would shudder hard. As it was, he turned his attention to a slice of bread and a spoonful of the sweet pepper relish. Or should he take some of the corn relish?

"Is there anything you like about him?" asked Harriet, pouring cider into three glasses. "Because liking someone will get you through the times when you don't love them."

Susannah kept quiet, and John thought to himself, oh, trouble. He changed the subject. "How has it been so far, Clara? Being home."

Clara's eyebrows went up, then down. "Oh! Um, the same, but different? The youngest children hadn't even been born the last time I was here. It's so very different from Boston, it's hard to explain. I suppose it's as different for me as it was for you, going to India from London and back again."

"Something like that," he muttered. 

For awhile there was silence as they ate, making sandwiches and inhaling slices of pecan pie covered with sweet cream. Finally, when no one could eat any more, they sat, or Clara's case, reclined, upon the ground and digested. 

"I should have brought some cards," said Clara, with a huge yawn. "Tennis is the last thing I want to do, now."

"Well," said Harriet, rooting around in her shoulder bag. "You're in luck. While I don't have any cards, I did bring _Marmion_."

"Oh my G-d," moaned John. "You still read _Marmion_? It's awful!"

"Just because your taste runs to the flamboyant, there's not cause to criticize my taste. I did not only bring _Marmion_ , I also brought Mrs. Gaskell's _North and South_ and the collected works of Mr. Poe."

_"Flamboyant?!_ You like _Marmion_ and _The Castle of Otranto_ , but think Mrs. Gaskell is the most dramatic of them all? I don't even know what to say to you," muttered John darkly. Really, _Marmion!_

After Harriet read, they napped. The ladies napped, John fell into a hard sleep, only to be awoken by a shake of his shoulder. He blinked and looked up sleepily.

Harried looked down at him fondly. "We're going to stretch our legs. Why don't you stay here and get some more rest? And when we come back - " She glanced over her shoulder towards Susannah and Clara, who were stripping seed heads off of grass stems - "when we come back, I'll tell Clara I brought dominoes."

John smiled and nodded. Why Clara was so obsessed with dominoes, he didn't know, but he was glad it was that instead of something infinitely more bet-able, such as cards. Harriet had her liquor, Clara had her cards. John...? John had nothing. But dominoes would do. In the meantime, he took the slim volume of Thoreau he had slipped into his jacket pocket and read a few of the essays therein. 

He came to abruptly, heart pounding, eyes wide even though he had no idea what was going on, what had him so startled. There was wild splashing to his left and he froze. A black man and a boy maybe nine years old or so, slogged through the river, the man's arm slung around the boy's shoulders as they struggled through the water. 

The man was gasping, one arm held tight to his ribs. The boy stumbled and they both went down into the water. John got to his feet to help, but by the time he was at the river's edge they were up again. The boy spied him and cried out in terror, pulling on the man's free arm towards the other bank.

"It's all right," called John. "I'm a doctor, I can help!"

The man was clearly exhausted and suddenly just sat down. Surprisingly, the water came up to his armpits. John toed off his boots and socks and stepped off the shore. He carefully felt his way to the pair, the riverbed slippery with unseen silt and underneath that, stones and pebbles that bit into the soles of his feet. "Come on," he said, hauling the man up by his arms. Together they battled back to the shore, a task made more difficult with one person hardly making the effort against the current, which was far stronger than John had anticipated.

John made the man sit down and lean against the tree. "I'm Dr. Watson," he said, gently palpating the man's ribs. "What's your name?"

Neither man nor boy said anything, but the looks between them were heavy. John continued to examine the man, silently noted the cuts and bruises on his neck and down the collar of his shirt, the abrasions along his arms John could feel but not see. "I don't think your ribs are broken, just badly bruised. You'll be sore for a few weeks, but you will recover," he didn't bother to tell the man not to work, there was obviously little chance of that happening.

Both of them were staring at John now in disbelief. He gave a single sharp nod. What they needed now was rest and a hot drink, but obviously they didn't have time for that. He had done was he could - no, there was one more thing. Quickly making two sandwiches, he offered them to the pair, then sliced pie. As they ate, John stood and stretched, quickly looking around for any one else. No one. He hoped. He rolled up his trousers to his knees. He was wet halfway up his thighs, there was no hiding he had been in the river. Hopefully he would be able to make the case that he had been standing on the bank and slipped in unexpected. Except he hadn't been wearing shoes. Shit. All right, he had gone wading in the river because he had fallen asleep and gotten hot, yeah, that would do. He tucked his socks into his boots and hoped his trousers dried sooner than later. Might be a little damp later on, but he could live with a bit of moisture on the way back to the Annex. And maybe the breeze would spring up and dry him completely.

He walked back and forth for a few minutes, then took his diary from his bag, remembered at the last minute that he hadn't put any damned ink in the writing pouch, not even the stub of a pencil. Annoyed with himself, he stood stock still, then tossed the diary back on top of the bag. He glanced back at the male slave, who was sweating heavily. Every now and again he moaned, looking at John hopefully, before turning away in disappointment. Seeking something that was not John. He was sitting funny, too, a lean to one side that piqued John's curiosity. "Can you get to your feet? I'd like to check your spine."

Although the tops of the man's tattered trousers were dry, his seat, the back of his ragged shirt and underarms were dark with moisture. Now that he was looking properly, it was clear that what John had assumed was river-water was sweat, too. Odd. Frowning, John motioned for the man to turn onto his side. 

"No!" hissed the boy, shaking his head hard. "Sir, no! If you just let us be, we be fine."

"Fine? This man needs a doctor, and I happen to be one."

"Ain't nothin' you can do for him, sir. It's just a fever folks get around here, nothin' to worry about. I'll bring him to Auntie Comfort, she'll provide for him."

Fever, eh? The boy was sure, and John allowed himself to be convinced once he saw the boy wiping the man's brow with the ragged end of his own shirt. "She'll take care of him? And you?"

The boy flashed him a brilliant smile, his teeth startlingly white against the dark brown of his skin. "Yes sir. Both of us be right as rain."

John shook his head. "I'm sorry I can't help more."

"You done enough," answered the boy. "Leli, come on."

John watched the two of them re-enter the water and continue down the river until they disappeared around the bend and were hidden from sight. He stood there for a moment longer, wondering if it had really happened, and what the consequences of his actions might be. Movement across the river caught his eye. He looked, only to find the two slaves who had carried their picnic baskets staring impassively back at him. _Christ!_ He had completely forgotten they were over there. Why hadn't they come over and helped their fellow slaves? More importantly, would they tell anyone what he had done? He would hate for his actions to rebound on Clara. 

The stand-off continued for a few more moments, then they turned away and melted into the forest. John didn't know what that meant, but he hoped he wouldn't be facing a beating upon return to Shambleau. There was nothing to be done for it now, all he could do was wait for the ladies to return. 

Which they did, not long after. They refreshed themselves with water and cider, while John partook of the beer. It was strong, so he kept himself to only two glasses. It wouldn't do to return to the house utterly smashed.

"John!" Clara said happily, dropping to the blanket a moment later. "We have news!"

Heart in his throat, John said, "Yes?"

"Susannah wants to come to Boston with us!"

"O-oh," he stuttered. "What brought this on?"

"Susannah does not wish to marry at this time, not to Mr. Davis," answered Harriet, arranging her skirts around herself as she knelt on the blanket. She turned and caught Susannah's hand, pulled her down as well. "We fully support her decision in this."

"And what about your parents?" he asked, looking first at Susannah, then at Clara. "What are they going to make of this?"

Susannah tossed her head. "They'll be glad to see the back of me. Mama already thinks I'm a hussey, this way she won't have to see me flaunting myself in front of every man in town."

John raised his eyebrows. Obviously words straight from the mouth of an adult. From what he had seen of Susannah, albeit he had only seen her briefly on that first day, she didn't strike him as a wild child or a loose girl.

"We have to consider you as well, John," said Harriet. "Would you be amenable to such an arrangement? It would be one other person in the house."

"As long as she's quiet during office hours, I'm sure I'll manage," Although privately he was wondering the same thing. Hartwell and Eliza already made enough of a racket as it was.

"Then it's settled," Harriet said to Susannah. "He can't force a marriage on to you if you're not here."

Susannah nodded, picked at the remnants of pickles on her plate. John had noticed she hadn't eaten much, concentrating on the very sweet pie and slice after slice of bread heavily dolloped with butter and topped with the sweet pepper relish. If that was the kind of thing she was eating on a regular basis, no wonder she was so thin. "Again, who's going to tell your father?"

Clara took a deep breath. "I will. I'll tell him after dinner. It's the best way."

"I'm fairly sure there is no 'best' in this situation."

"There are...other issues at stake, John," said Harriet, who was looking at him with a fixed expression.

"I'm sure there oh my _G-d,_ " John stared at Susannah. Yes, she was thin, too thin, and yes, she didn't eat properly. Now the reason for her to come to Boston was apparent - or rather, not _yet_ apparent. Anger and pity warred within him; anger at what had been foisted upon her, and pity at the same. History repeating itself. "Is this why you don't want to marry Mr. Davis? You don't think he'll be understanding?" John could have slapped himself once the words came out of his mouth. _Of bloody course_ Davis wouldn't want her, that was the whole reason he was courting a fourteen year old in the first place! Now she was tainted goods.

"John, no," corrected Clara gently. "Mr. Davis is the cause of her ruination."

Jesus! Of course, he should have seen by the way she hadn't wanted to talk about him. "I'm so sorry, Miss Susannah. You are of course more than welcome to return north with us."

His words broke the dam; Susannah burst into tears. John offered his handkerchief, Clara took it as she drew Susannah to her with a look of compassion. Crying women always made John uncomfortable, and he was relieved when Harriet jerked her head and started to get up. He quickly followed, and they made their way to the river bank. Once out of earshot of Clara, John had to ask. "Is this a wise idea? I mean, of course we'll take her with us, but what will happen to the babe? What about her future prospects? People will find out."

Harriet's mouth thinned in the way that John knew was a sure sign of obstinacy. Clearly it wasn't going to matter what he said, only what he did. 

"We have a plan. Clara is going to adopt the child, and then Susannah will return home."

"You can't send her back here!" protested John. "They'll figure it out as soon as Clara brings her home!"

Harriet shook her head. "Clara's not planning on coming back, John. She's...she's found it difficult. She's not the girl she was when she left. She's seen a bit more of the world...you know we have friends in the Abolitionist Society, and she's decided to officially join them. As have I."

John couldn't countermand their choice, even if he wanted to. Hell, if he was a joining kind of fellow - which was ridiculous, he'd joined the Army, for goodness sake - the Abolitionist Society was not the Army, far from it. Besides, given he had just helped two presumed runaways escape the plantation… "I'm glad you've both found something to put your considerable energies into," And anything which kept Harriet out of the pub was a good thing. She did better when Clara was with her, and perhaps the presence of a new baby would further induce her to keep off the drink.

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You're not being nasty, why?"

"Why would I be nasty?" he replied, both hurt that she would say such a thing, as well as ruefully acknowledging that in the past he had been a right bastard to her. He held up one hand. "No, never mind, don't tell me. I see no reason why your plan shouldn't work...I simply think you're underestimating what's going to happen to Susannah after the baby is born. Are you so sure she'll want to give him or her up? When is she due, anyway?"

"Five months."

Shocked, John glanced back at Susannah. He would not have guessed she was that far along. She was so slim, however, and her torso long. Her stays probably kept her tight, as well. 

"You're not...upset?" asked Harriet timidly. She was looking at John as if she expected him to slap her across the face, or accuse her of ruining Clara's family.

"Not at you," he said, shaking his head. "What she's going through is terrible. What she's already gone through...she must have been terrified."

Harriet nodded, tossed a stone into the water. "He wasn't gentle. He took her, then threatened that he would tell everyone she was a slattern, ready to be used, and not even for coin. She was so scared, John. I think if we hadn't come when we did, she would have tried to take her own life."

"Thank g-d for the two of you, then."

"And you," said Harriet, touching his wrist gently. "You've been very kind to her today."

John frowned and shook his head again. "I didn't do anything."

"Exactly." 

The way she said it made John want to ask her if her time with Silas had been all right. He wanted to, but didn't, not wanting to know the truth. He suspected it would be very ugly indeed, and then he might be forced to do something should Silas ever return to Boston, and murder charges were not a thing to be rid of easily, not even with Lestrade to help. 

A sudden thought occurred to John. "That's why her father was so angry with her the other day, wasn't it? Clara had told him Susannah was expecting."

"You've got it in one. He doesn't want her to go to Boston, thinks she should get through her punishment here at Shambleau. Learn the error of her ways. But, he's torn, because this will reflect badly on him."

"I'll say. So...he wants her to marry Davis?"

"That's the gist of it. He'll force her if he has to. He's threatened to turn her out, and though she's a fractious girl, she's delicate. She's not capable of learning to be like a common woman on the streets."

"I find his strategy quite confusing. He wants her to give birth here at Shambleau, he wants her married, he wants to make sure she understands what a bad thing she did, but at the same time is angry at her for being caught by a predator? A predator who's his business associate?" John shook his head slowly. Unbelievable. "When do you plan on telling Mrs. Littleton?"

"As soon as we get back."

"You're a glutton for punishment."

Harriet gave him a sly smile. "But Mrs. Littleton doesn't know Susannah's pregnant. All she knows is that her child is not doing what she says. It is, in fact, all she seems to care about. "

"Well, I wish you luck."

"Come on," she said, looking back towards the tree. "I think the immediate crisis has passed."

Indeed, Susannah was not precisely looking happy so much as less desperate, which was good enough for John. They cleaned up, rinsing plate and cups and silverware in the river, putting it all back into the baskets. When John muttered that he wouldn't be the one bringing the baskets back, Clara laughed and shook her head.

"Marcus and Peter will bring it all back. Don't worry, we won't make you labor or strain yourself."

He felt a little strange, leaving it all behind, but when he glanced back one final time, he saw the two men fording the river from where John had been feasting only a few hours before. 

A strange day, all around.

 

~*~

 

Sunday. They had to attend church.

Fuming, John slipped on his jacket and made sure he looked clean and tidy in the mirror. He looked pissed off, which was only right - he _was_ pissed off. Church had not been part of his life for many years and he saw no reason to change his views now. He had become used to church services in India, which were rather more social events than anything else, and it was clear that in this household piety was not only encouraged, but expected.

By the time he went downstairs, everyone else had already gathered. Clara looked at him apologetically, then herded Eliza and Hartwell out of the house. Harriet lingered in the hallway, holding John up. She glanced at the open front door, then spoke.

"Mary Littleton will be there. You mustn't be nasty to her, John."

John looked askance at her. "How do you know about Mary Littleton?"

Harriet rolled her eyes. "She introduced herself to me, quite rudely, I should add, and said the two of you had already met. Why didn't you _tell_ me? I could have been forewarned and thus, forearmed."

John eyed the door before whispering back. "I thought you already knew and didn't want me to know!"

"Harriet? John?"

He leaned closer. "Does she even know?"

Harriet shrugged helplessly. "I don't know - I don't think so? She's never brought her name up...I don't know what to do!"

"Do nothing," John said firmly, putting his hand on her shoulder and spinning her around. Was there a whiff of white spirit on her breath? "Be polite in Clara's presence if this Mary should turn up, and whatever you do, do _not_ cause a scene in the church!"

"Me? A scene?" Harriet hissed back, hand to her chest in honest offence.

"Ah, just coming!" John called at the sight of Clara's bonneted head peering through the door. "Yes," he said at a normal volume. "If you could just do that, that would be fantastic. Now come on, everyone's waiting."

Harriet was steaming with anger, and righteous or no, John didn't much care. She was free to call him whatever names she wanted, so long as it didn't happen in the damned church. 

"This way," Clara said, her gaze darting from John to Harriet and back again. "We don't have a proper church here at Shambleau, and it's too far into town, so we hold services here."

'Here' happened to be the formal parlour. And 'we' consisted of the entire family, from the tiniest child - apart from Susannah and Joseph, John had already forgotten who was who and how old they were - to the adults, including one wizened old woman in black whom John had never seen before. 

Clara's father performed the service, reading stentoriously from a large family bible on a display stand on a side table. The lower shutters on the windows had been closed, leaving only pale, overcast sky to look at every now and then, if Littleton's frequent checks of his audience weren't enough to dissuade one from doing so. 

John quietly stewed in his own clothing as the humidity reached new levels of sweltering. With the windows shut, there was no breeze and even linen and cotton couldn't do much to keep him anything less than feeling as if he were slowly braising in his own juices. The Littleton's didn't appear to be affected, with even Clara standing there with eyes closed. Himself, Harriet, Eliza and Hartwell were a different matter entirely. The children were fidgeting, to the point where Harriet kept sending them warning glances and once bent down to whisper something in Eliza's ear. When she stood back up she was gritting her teeth, a poor sign for the rest of the day.

When the sermon concluded, John surreptitiously checked his watch - half the morning was gone - and rubbed his ears. Littleton clearly enjoyed sermonizing, and John hoped for the sake of everyone's hearing that the windows would be open on the next Sunday. Both his leg and his shoulder ached, and he wanted nothing more than to sit down with a cup of tea, some biscuits or better yet a sandwich, and a good book. Everyone was moving towards the door, however, and he followed along. Of all people, it was Susannah who took pity on him, politely stopping on the porch and waiting for him to catch up.

"We always go for a walk after church," she said, readjusting her hat.

"It'll be good to stretch me legs," he lied. 

She looked at him. "There's a stump you can sit on when we get there."

Get where? The ache had him limping with a few strides, but he managed for a few more minutes, trailing the group until they reached their destination, a stand of walnut trees on the edge of a field of barley. There was actually more than one stump, and John sat down gratefully. Great, how his lower back also hurt - undoubtedly he was leaning to one side or another to ease the pain. Ridiculous. He would have to watch himself in a full length mirror to see how he was moving wrong.

A mild breeze sprung up, which made everyone sigh with relief. Clara had secreted several fans about her person and proceeded to hand them out. John accepted one made of ivory with pretty cutwork. It wasn't exactly masculine, yet he was too sweaty to care. He closed his eyes and listened to the chatter around him. It was nice to think of nothing of consequence. No patients who wanted their magic pills _right now_ , no cures he couldn't attain, no spas to suggest. Instead, there was the laughter of children, the murmur of Mrs. Littleton as she spoke to Clara, and beneath it all, the insistent drone of insects.

Just as John began to wonder how long they would be there, and for what purpose, Clara spoke.

"Oh, they're starting! Harriet, do come here - "

John looked around, half-expecting what, he didn't know. And then he heard it, a song. A soloist, her voice rising and falling, then a chorus, strong and full. Call and response, over and over. He found himself shaking his head to the rhythm of the music and stopped immediately out of embarrassment. Glancing around, however, he saw that everyone else was also enraptured. Clara's eyes were closed as she rocked from side to side. Her parents sat still and upright, staring off into the distance with hard, unsmiling faces. John didn't know how they could remain unmoved; within himself he felt a call of some sort, a pull to...the song ended to distant laughter.

John listened intently, but couldn't make out the words. "What are they saying?"

Mr. Littleton answered. "Nigra songs. They always sing 'em in the fields."

"Mm," John nodded, wished he understood. The call and respond stirred his soul as the pipes did during the charge of war. 

The day finally arrived when they were to leave. It seemed to John that everyone was eager to go, for cooler weather if nothing else. Susannah was coming with them, which meant new travel arrangements. He was a little surprised by Clara's report that her mother had not hesitated in letting Susannah come north with virtual strangers, that it was her father who had wanted Susannah to stay. Granted, they had been here almost a month...and when he thought about it, Harriet had gone on long excursions with her friends when she was Clara's age, too. He had had a few adventures, but that was in England, where distances were far smaller and everyone knew everyone else.

"Goodbye, Mama," said Clara, leaning forward to kiss her mother on the cheek. "Tell Father I said goodbye."

Mrs. Littleton nodded, folding her arms across her chest. She had the same expression on her face as when he and Harriet and the children arrived. There was nothing for it, he had to admit that not only did he not like her or her husband or this damned plantation, but little wonder did all of their children want to leave as son as they were able. He hoped Harriet's children felt more for their mother than Clara did for her parents. 

Susannah was coming with them. John had not been party to the discussion about that in the big house, he had only witnessed its aftermath after he had returned from doctoring the slaves yet again: Clara accepting a cold wet cloth to her face, her cheek still bearing the reddened imprint of a hand - her father's, by the size of it, Harriet upstairs shouting at the children. While he stood there, wondering what to say, a little slave girl staggered into the parlour with a water bucket far too large for her, slopping water all over the floor. John took it from her and poured it into the pot now on the side of the fireplace. 

"Thanks, that'll be all," he said, hating her wide-eyed, frightened look. It made him want to yell at her, which was even more awful, but that was the mood he found himself in every time he returned from slave row. He made himself calm down and forced a smile onto his face, though judging by her quick glance at the door, it wasn't a successful one. Well, if it made her leave, all the better.

Nonetheless, Wednesday found everyone seated in the wagon, which looked suspiciously like the one they had arrived in. There wasn't a lot of room in the bed of it, what with Susannah and all of her belongings, plus all of the things Clara insisted she needed back in Boston (they mostly seemed to consist of various jars of pickles), so John sat next to Desmond on the driver's bench. At least this way he had a good view of the ruts to come, a sort of blessing. 

Desmond lifted the reins and the wagon jerked into motion. John couldn't help but turn back to look at Shambleau as the wagon rumbled down the drive. The fine white house with its tidy lane of slave shacks, the fields beyond hidden by tall trees, nary a hint of the river over yonder. A quirk of wind left him with a snatch of song, the hauntingly strong voice of a man aching with pain and sorrow, which seemed to be all the slaves sang about. Unsurprisingly.

Yes, Shambleau had been an experience, all right, one he didn't care to repeat. Funny, if he was back in Boston, giving someone else advice on whether or not they should come to the South, before Shambleau he would of course said Yes, expand your horizons, and all of that. Now that he had experience of the place, however, he wasn't so sure. He had seen much horror in his life - Lucknow, Cawnpore, that damned ship in the Crimea...yet somehow this was the worst of the lot. Perhaps it was the ordinariness of it all. The blood and gore in the well by the Bibighar had been - the smell - he had not lost his lunch. At the time he had congratulated himself on being made of sterner stuff, of having the remove of being a doctor, of being knowledgeable in the ways of severed limbs and decapitation. And even his own private dread at what he might (and did) find was tolerable, though barely. What happened there, happened. Those nights filled with bullets and bombs and shrieking and fire, with the agony of infection, he knew they would end, either with the arrival of the Army or his own death. 

And yet.

Here, right here in America...

It was not right that folk should walk by a child with iron around its ankle, a woman with a metal mask over her mouth, a man with a collar spiked above his own head. 

It was not right to see a pregnant woman whipped in a field.

It was not right that he had obeyed the law of the land rather than going to that woman's aid. A hot trickle of shame ran through his belly, making him turn his face away from Desmond in case tears should fall. Never again. Never again would he be so weak, though even his life be at stake.

He was not going to join the Abolitionist Society. He was not that kind of man to grab a soapbox and proclaim his ethics and morals for all to hear. But, he could make changes in his personal life to ease the lives of others. 

"Are you all right?" asked Clara, leaning back over the side of the wagon to catch his attention.

John twisted in his seat, smiled slightly. "I'm fine," he said. "Get back before you fall out."

She shook her head. "I've ridden in far worse wagons, trust me on that."

"Humor me," He said, and was gratified a moment later to see her do just that. It was good to have family with him, he decided, as troublesome as they sometimes were. They would shield him from his own feelings, distract him from thoughts of Mary - but o, how she would have loved them, and they would have loved her. He shook his head at his own thoughts. Ridiculous, still, to feel so awful. Nearly two years had passed since her death and Lestrade and Harriet were right, much like this wagon, it was time to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've had to make this story into two parts, but they run concurrently. The second part - _[A Dark Lamp](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6176719)_ is backstory for _Lamp_ that just didn't fit in. I mean, I could have used dates and all, but quite frankly I didn't want to. You of course don't have to read A Dark Lamp if you don't want to! Or save it for later, whatever floats your boat.
> 
> There will be a giant bibliography of source materials...
> 
> As for a posting schedule, well, eh heh, um, I have 140k words of this written...and I'm not done yet. The next few chapters are written, but, yanno, editing and making sure everything makes sense...having said that, I did join the WIP Big Bang, so it'll be complete by the end of July. 
> 
> _*nervous laughter*_
> 
> Oh, one more thing: I'm a Northerner. I've never been further south than Baltimore and I don't think I could ever live in the south because, yanno, bugs (admittedly I'm thinking Florida/Georgia, but I'm taking no chances with ginormous spiders and flying cockroaches and things)(sorry). I've done all the research I can from where I leave and I'm sure I've gotten plenty wrong - I can only apologize.


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